


Tried and True (draft)

by AlltheB7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is dead, Multi, Open Relationships, PTSD, Pansmione - Freeform, description of a panic attack, no one is married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26098093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlltheB7/pseuds/AlltheB7
Summary: It had been easy for Hermione to love Ron and Harry, but it hadn't been easy to move forward in the years after the Battle of Hogwarts. So when Harry died a few months before his oldest daughter's birthday and left Pansy Parkinson pregnant, it wasn't just the funeral that complicated Hermione's life.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 30
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Strides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strides/gifts).



> An exploration of Post-War relationships, pregnancy, and polyamory, this fic was originally inspired by From the Ashes by fourth_rose. (While I recommend From the Ashes all day for the angsty fluff of it, the two contrast thematically and tonally.) 
> 
> Also, this is a sketch I've been working on and am currently trying to figure out if I want to keep exploring or if I should let it go. Bc I'm not sure this will ever become more than a sketch, every chapter will be the last chapter to avoid me leading you on. 
> 
> And here are two gender neutral actual definitions followed by a slight twist on wixen:
> 
> Wizard: person who requires an object to channel their magical powers.  
> Witch: person who requires no object to channel their magical powers.  
> Wixen: encompassing term for magically-inclined self-aware people.

McGonagall nodded over the maw of the grave, hand wrapped around a staff she had taken to using in the last year. The bright sun had risen to mid morning and Hermione swallowed down another wave of tears. Clutching their small hands, she anchored her children to her sides. Ensconced in mourning robes, sweat gathered about her hairline and lower back, mixing her memories of seventh year with grief. 

Hermione's chest ached, empty and hollow. Glimpses of green eyes and set jaw rolled through her memories as she felt another sob tear its way up her throat and she methodically swallowed it back down. Too soon, much too soon to cry. Later. 

Stood just a bit beside her was Ron with Ginny clutching his arm as Harry's casket lowered into the grave. Close to them huddled Molly, openly weeping, Arthur and the rest of the brothers red-eyed and quiet, sombre in their grief. 

Behind them she heard Hagrid bawling quietly, his usual profuse sobbing held back for the ritual. Hermione and Ron had gone to Hagrid's the day after, and the three spent the morning in grief on his doorstep and then the Forbidden Forest. 

Harry's death, though sudden and clinically neat, was exhausting. Hermione had spent more time working through the funeral arrangements than anyone else, writing correspondence and notices to close friends in early mornings before the girls woke. The moments were fleeting in their timelessness--Hermione allowed herself these few moments to contemplate her own sorrow before she would again rally the Weasley clan together.

The priest spoke above the dark hole.  
_To me,  
to my house,  
come you all after death_.

Over a hundred and fifty people stood around Harry's funeral, reporters waiting just beyond the gates against a swath of Aurors and security charms. That had been another detail she had had to coordinate with Ron and the Law Enforcement office. 

Eyes skimming the black mass, Hermione suddenly felt the prick of eyes watching her. Focusing her gaze and turning her head slightly, she locked eyes with a recently familiar face.

Pansy Parkinson. Quiet and stoic, the taller woman stood off to the side, tear tracks evident. The searing tumult in Hermione's stomach almost overtook her. Of course she came. She clenched her jaw to avoid saying or being untoward. 

At the unintentional glare, Parkinson raised her chin and turned back to the grave.

Hermione followed the former student's gaze to the ceremony. McGonagall and the priest commenced the interment, motioning to his family come forward. Mind numb, Hermione steered them to the mound of damp earth.

"Here," voice thick, she guided Rose's thin arm to the dirt. "We return...Harry to the earth." The dark soil, parts cool and warm and loose, slipped between their fingers and she gently moved Rose into tossing it onto the casket. Almost nothing made it into the dark musty hole, sprinkles of black cascaded about the inanely green grass. Looking up to Ron, whose eyes burned with red rims, she nodded and demonstrated the muggle custom again. Then she helped Jordan and they stood back, waiting for the rest of the Weasley family to join.

Looking up, Hermione found Pansy's face again, this time downturned, Draco and Narcissa by her side. She could almost hear Harry chastising her earlier angry thoughts. Of all the people who didn't share Harry's visions for the magical world, Draco and Narcissa could understand his sacrifices. Draco was walking with Pansy's arm looped over his elbow when his pointed features looked up. A flash of sadness and determination before a respectful nod. 

Yes, they deserved to show respect on this final day.

Swallowing down the sharp ache, she looked to Ron, and without thinking, put a hand to his chest and leaned in, breathing deeply. His comforting arms wrapped around her and the hot tears rolled down her cheeks. They would find a way through this.

* * *

"For the following party: Rubeus Hagrid, I bequeath this key with the enclosed instructions," the stodgy solicitor levitated a key and letter to the half giant. Reaching out, Hagrid's hand dwarfed the items before tucking them into his robes. 

With gruff Thank you, Hagrid sidled out the door of Harry's solicitor's office and past Hermione, Ron, and Ginny as they waited for their appointment. 

There was no reading of a last will, not like in the dramas. It was all much more tame than that. Mundane even when one considered that after getting the will proven, the executor owled and requested an appointment. From that it was a simple matter of agreeing to a time and sending a confirmation owl. Spending another fifteen minutes staring at the breakfast nook wall was also simple. 

"Lastly, per Harry 's request, he had provided the following prepared statement," the mustache under his nose twitched and he handed the letter to Hermione. 

Reaching out, Hermione took the envelope and opened it. The parchment, heavy and smooth, slid between her fingers and cracked lowly. Ron and Ginny's hands, squeezed at her shoulder and knee. 

_Of all the people I have come to know and love, you have stood with me, steadfast against the dark and unknown. And if you're reading or hearing this--I have started this last journey without you. Know that wherever I go from here, I will be waiting for you. And know that I am now free. There is no longer any place you can go where my heart cannot follow.  
My love will follow you.   
Always._

In reading the penned goodbye, there were flashes--Harry sitting at his desk in the house scribbling notes from a case, hair mussed and barely kempt; warm smile of sadness and relief at the cliffside, the tenor of his murmurs vibrating against her skin. The letter sounded such like him, open and brave, and the loss cleaved so suddenly through her ribs she could not hold back the cry and doubled over, tears and grief ripping up through her stomach and from her eyes. 

They were supposed to have more time: he was going to give Rose her first broom for her seventh birthday this year, he was supposed to be in her bed last night, he was supposed to _live._ Ragged sobs rocked her until Ron and Ginny closed around her tightly. 

The silence of their collective grief shuffled to an end with Edward's papers neatly sorted back into the folder on the pale cherry desk. After another breath, patient and soft, the executor smiled sadly and they silently agreed to bid him goodbye with their individual bequest envelopes in hand. 

Stepping out of the office, Hermione headed for the front lobby, the two Weasleys in tow when she looked up at the sound of a low voice to find Pansy Parkinson stood at the secretary's desk, head bent and features pallid. She froze. 

Ron bumped into her back and she staggered forward with a small _oof._

"Oi," he softly murmured, confused at her sudden stop. "What is i--" his voice cut off as he followed her gaze to the left.

At the quiet bustle, Pansy looked up and Hermione watched the queasy expression harden into an unreadable mask. 

Behind and next to her she felt Ron and Ginny's backs stiffen and Ginny inhale. 

Quick as flash, Pansy's eyes darted between the three and she raised her chin. 

Mumbling darkly, Ginny began "What is--" 

"You go ahead," Hermione instructed swiftly. The last thing anyone wanted was for news of an altercation at the solicitor's. Looking meaningfully at Ron, she silently urged him. 

"Gin, let's get back before Mum starts to worry." And like that, he guided his sister to the floo. 

"I'll catch up," Hermione waved. 

Turning back to the desk, she found the secretary scribbling on a note, alone. Twisting about, she caught a glimpse of a blue skirt and heels around the corner. 

Hustling, she hurriedly followed and turned the corner in time to see Pansy disappear through a bathroom door. 

Debating the proper action, Hermione bit her lip in determination before pressing into the bathroom quietly. She regretted following Pansy as soon as she heard the slam of the stall and a wretching sound from the furthest stall. She blinked against the stark sound of it. 

Locking the door with a wordless spell and casting a silencing charm, she leaned against it, mulling on the meaning of this. Harry had loved them all, but love neither erased trauma nor stopped someone's pain from wandering. Not many people understood or were privy to the unique dynamic shared between the Golden Trio and Ginny, but apparently Pansy had come to mean more to Harry than he had mentioned in their last few conversations.

Imagining what he might tell her in this moment, the best she could bring to mind was his set jaw and the phrase they used to repeat to each other while out in the Forest. 

_Just...try._

Those two words had become a refrain for their lives. Holding onto Bathilda's locket and being driven mad: _just try_. Mentally numb after Bellatrix's assault: _just try._ Applying for a ministry position: _bugger, we're already shoe ins._

Choosing to conceive and rear Rose: _can we just try?_

There was a flush and a quiet shuffle before Pansy emerged, brushing a knuckle across her lower lip. As she turned, she caught sight of Hermione and froze, quickly straightening and dropping her hand. 

"Came to gloat then?" Her voice a bit husky from bile, she cleared her throat as quietly as she could. Both darker and more sallow than Hermione remembered, Pansy stood tall before bending over the wash basin to wash her hands. Indeed, Pansy was taller than she ever recalled, standing about as tall if not taller than Harry once stood. 

It was obvious the woman felt nauseous, and Hermione remembered the crawling dread of her own morning sickness with Rose. "I am not sure I could bring myself to gloat, even if I felt so inclined." The words rang true even though her own body felt unsteady. Taking a slow breath, she continued, "Rose had me sick for nearly fourteen weeks, the worst I could do is offer you the draught that Molly used to brew for me."

The stolid expression on Pansy's face shifted and Hermione noticed how carefully she held herself. "If Molly Weasley could survive seven of them, she must have a decent potion." 

At that, Hermione blinked. She couldn't smile, though it was an amusing thought Hermione had had herself. "I'll send an owl." 

Later that evening, after the girls were asleep and Molly floo'd home, Hermione slid her finger under the flap and pulled the packet of papers. One was the portion of Harry's will pertaining to her, describing the inheritance of his estate. Behind that are three other pages: a legal form two pages long outlining the specifics of the inherited estate that would pass to any of his surviving children (to be held in trust until they were of age) from Edward, followed by a letter describing how intestate will proceed and, that at the current time, the estate will be divided in half. 

Eyes skimming down faster, Hermione's jaw set as she found confirmation of the afternoon's suspicions. 

_All real property will be split by Hermione Granger and all surviving child(ren) sired by Harry James Potter with the following:_

_Hermione Jean Granger  
Pansy Aurora Parkinson_

At the bottom a magicked blood seal spelled to connect to any of Harry's direct descendants was stamped and embossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Characters in this fic will be grey, morally and otherwise. There will be no arguing like teenagers and using sexual tension as a central plot driver. There will be no triumphant jealous display or possessive nonsense. Feedback is welcome with the understanding that one doesn't have to be a prick to provide critique.
> 
> Oh, and I cried while writing this and each of the multiple times I edited it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone weighs in on Pansy moving in, and no one is hexed when the day arrives.

"You cannot be serious" Ron's low voice rose as she prepared dinner for the family. Over the rice cooker (Hermione refused to magically cook her rice), she poured the measured water in and popped the lid on top. 

"I am serious," she replied, turning to the pot and stirring. After dinner she planned to discuss the estate with Ginny and Ron in more depth while the girls had their quiet time. 

Ron had barely been able to fathom a coherent thought when Harry first brought up that he had begun seeing Pansy Parkinson. _But why pug-face?_ He lamented. 

To be sure, Hermione had her own reservations. Even after the war, Pansy remained staunchly aligned with other pureblood ideals, as neutral as they purportedly claimed to be. 

"He went mental, that's gotta be it," Ron concluded more calmly when Hermione gave him a sharp look. He shrugged off the conversation, dipping a pinky into the curry on the stove, the redhead brought it to his mouth and groaned. "If you weren't already beautiful, I'd still want you." Coming up behind her, Ron wound his arms around her small frame and kissed her temple.

Exhaling a long suffering sigh with a suppressed grin, she batted his hand away as he reached his pinky out again. Closing her eyes a moment, she cherished his height and warmth. "Who else would have you, Ronald?" she turned her head to the side and murmured into his shoulder. 

"Oi," he gruffed with a smirk and squeezed her tightly to his side while dipping his pinky back into the pot. 

"Ron!" she tried to admonish through her laughter and attempts to wriggle free. "Manners! Really!" As she twisted, he laughed and the girls came charging from the living room, abandoning their Legos at the prospect of mischief. 

Squealing and fearless, Rose dove in first to latch onto one of Ron's legs. More hesitant and observant, Jordan hung back, her wide brown eyes moved over the spectacle as she nervously watched. 

"Get 'im!" Hermione encouraged her youngest, nearly yelping as Ron picked her up off the floor. Jordan screwed up her courage and grabbed Ron by the back of his belt. 

Shouts and laughter of "Let her go!" and "I'll save you, Mummy!" came from below while Hermione angled and tickled her way to near freedom only to be pulled back once more. 

With children underfoot, the two stumbled about the kitchen (purposefully away from the stove), their laughter giving way to pants of exertion and mirth. 

Letting the girls "take him down!" as Rose ordered, Ron began falling, wide smile hair ruffled. 

With a yank from behind, he pulled her unceremoniously atop and Hermione stumbled, trying to avoid landing directly on his face. Hands and knees carefully fell, bracketing his head, avoiding hurting him or the kids, and Hermione groaned at his antics. "If I go down, so do you," his voice rumbled against her stomach. Ron moved his mouth and tickled at her stomach through her shirt until she moved aside to let him breathe without obstruction. Sandwiched between their girls, Hermione sighed. 

Chuckles subsiding, the moment hung quietly as they all caught their breath. Inhaling deeply and looking up to the ceiling, she figured Harry would be home soon. 

Harry.

Harry wasn't coming home tonight. Swallowing hard, she forced the tears back because it was nearly time for dinner. 

"I miss Daddy Harry," Rose quietly murmured against her side. Sad and confused, her small voice cut right through the remaining resolve of Hermione's heart. She let out a sob and felt the pain move through her chest. 

"Me, too, Rooster," Hermione replied, hugging her tightly with her one arm. Tears fell from her eyes and she got up from the floor, helping Rose and Jordan. Through the silent crying, she huskily told Ron to "Help yourself up, pinky dipper." 

* * *

"You don't have anything to prove," Ginny pointed out as they went out for lunch a few weeks later, the chagrin over her fish and chips obvious to Hermione. It would possibly chafe Hermione if she were Ginny. 

But she wasn't Ginny. 

Slowly chewing on the corned beef on rye, Hermione considered the words. She had considered a lot already: that Harry had started a family with Pansy without talking to them first; that Harry was gone and they had to now live with his decisions; that Pansy had told Hermione that she not only intended to keep the child and inheritance, but wanted to move in to the home at Godric's Hollow. 

Pansy's words had been " _My child deserves to be there_." 

The haughty disdain on her face made it clear that Pansy had no desire to further explain her motives, and it was made more explicitly clear when Hermione pressed her further and Pansy's still pallid face contorted into a sneer, " _Granger, I have not once pestered you about your little_ arrangement _, do not presume that I owe you anything other than the notice that I intend to move by the end of the month."_

In talking with Harry's solicitor and a few others regarding inheritance laws, Pansy was within her right to move in to the house--she carried Harry's unborn child and no amount of magic or lawful detainers could counter the home's charms. Infuriating was one word for the situation and there was no way around it: whether she liked Parkinson or not, the woman was moving into Godric's Hollow. 

She closed her eyes and took another bite, imagining Harry at the table. 

_Just...try._

The bloody tosser made everything worse with his being... Harry _._

"Whether or not I like Parkinson, the woman is moving in, and in approximately seven or eight months, so will Harry's daughter. I cannot understand Harry's choices, but at this point, his choices are done. Pansy wants to move in with us? So be it. Rose and Jordan will simply have another person to harangue with bubbles and glitter."

Hermione smirked at the thought of providing muggle glitter to her daughters and leaving Parkinson for a conveniently timed run to the grocers. Small petty endeavors could be scheduled accordingly, should Pansy prove insufferable, she resolved with a certain glee. 

Ginny swallowed a large bite and sipped her water. "Yeah, but I don't envy you having to tell Ron he is going to have to move out." 

Ginny had never moved into the home, claiming it was _plain barmy_ to live with Ron, but had maintained her own place a street over, where Harry would stay a few nights a week and she was close by. 

Hermione had never asked Harry why the two never had any children and the athletic redhead never brought it up. And now with Harry's passing, curious though she was, it would be tasteless to ask how Ginny felt about Pansy's state. Regardless, Ginny remained a devoted aunt to both Rose and Jordan, celebrating every milestone of Rose's as well as Jordan's. Unspoken, but true, Rose's fearlessness resonated strongly with Ginny, and though the elder child was not her blood, she was Ginny's favorite. 

Closing her eyes, Hermione pressed the heel of her hand over an eye. "Honestly, Gin, he had been planning to move out, anyway." 

Before Harry's death, at least. The last couple of weeks he had spent with her in their bed, alternately gentle, numb, and hard. On the hard nights, they didn't even speak, really, after casting wordless silence charms and roughly commanding, often painfully grappling and pushing. It was a trade--pain for pain--that they shared and could not conquer, instead punishing each other with their angry grief. More often on those nights, Ron mounted her from behind, pounding so frightfully that she could barely breathe, clawing her hips hard enough to drag her from the howling numbness of memories and into the present with deep bruises inside and out. 

Truly, Ron moving out would be more difficult on her than anyone else, and Ginny's comment only underlined that she and Ron would be having another conversation about Rose and Jordan's schooling and daycare itineraries once again. Harry had often left for work in the early hours and came home early from the Ministry's Law Enforcement Office in order to pick up the girls. She had taken an extended leave of bereavement, but it would be ending soon and while both parents had understood what needed to be done, the details had not been discussed.

At her friend's raised eyebrows, Hermione explained further. "You know how both of them are--were--needing a bit more space." She really did not feel up to mitigating Ginny's emotions on the matter today.

Ginny dead panned. "You mean he wants to hook up whenever and not have to make plans around the girls." 

Patient, but unwilling to let the comment slide, Hermione stared back. "I mean Ron was looking for more space and I am happy to let him decide what is best for him. He has never let me or the girls down, even if work has pulled him away at times."

It wasn't an easy thing for many people to grasp, Hermione knew, but sometimes Ginny's disapproval felt heavier on her than the men. Like she enabled their decisions instead of actively listening to everyone's needs and accepting their independent choices. 

As if refusing to marry Ron took Harry away from Ginny when the reality was that Harry belonged to no one and his own choices took him down his own path. And it was not Hermione's choice or idea that Harry visit Ginny less and less over time, that Ginny's sternness found little comfort in Harry's wandering ways. 

The three had chosen to walk a path together for as long as it felt right. It was unfair to make Hermione choose between the two, and life was unfair, in general, but that didn't mean they couldn't all be together. Living without them was unacceptable and she actively worked to keep both their loves alive and warm because at the end of most days, Harry came home. It wasn't typical, but it had worked. 

She also suspected Ginny harbored feelings towards herself, if the past were any indication. Years ago the two had gotten soused--Hermione celebrating having a free night a year after Rose's birth--and amidst their whiskeys and laughter, Ginny confessed having " _an intellectual crush_ " on Hermione her fourth and fifth years. 

Smiling softly, Hermione had gently pressed closer to the woman with a lilting " _Just intellectual?_ " It wasn't an unrequited attraction, Hermione could easily admit; she had wondered about the long looks that she often felt when Ginny thought Hermione distracted. It was difficult to not feel the woman's intense stare.

The notoriously brave chaser flushed and sidestepped, claiming a need to use the loo. Not really surprised by the response, Hermione had smiled when Ginny emerged once more, and they went about dancing and chatting loudly for the rest of the night. Ginny never brought it up again, and Hermione had no inclination either, so the matter had quickly fizzled away. On a rare occasion at the Burrow, even so many years later, however, Hermione still felt Ginny's lingering stare. 

Attraction for many people was confounding, when in Hermione's opinion, it just _was._ Commitment was commitment, love was love, attraction was attraction, and duty was duty. The challenge lay in prioritizing them to avoid conflict.

Ginny was more than likely still embarrassed, and Harry's new metamour was now planning to move into their home, displacing Ron. It was all rather odd, if one were to look at things from a distance. But the reality is that Harry's children would all be living together, and while Hermione was not excited at Pansy's presence, another baby did seem rather fun.

No matter Ginny's judgments, this situation was what it was. And in the back of her mind, when Hermione imagined chastising Harry for leaving things in such disarray, the Harry in her mind shrugged with a sympathetic smile. 

Typical.

* * *

Ron moved out with little fuss, given that he mostly used his room as an office (filled with Chudley Cannon posters). He already had his name wait-listed on a flat the neighborhood over and was able to finagle an earlier move in date. She figured he had waved his Auror's robes around a bit after work one day and put on a bit of charm. 

He had grown a lot since the last battle, including growing into his confidence and limbs. Rather gangly and a total wanker in school, Ron was more self-possessed and self-aware, now. It was a simple logic to follow that people found his easy smile both calming and alluring. Given that he also kept in shape and listened when spoken to, he could guilelessly charm most people within minutes. 

Charm aside, the biggest hurdle hadn't been him moving out, indeed, it had been Pansy moving in. 

As Pansy swept through the door, nose immediately scrunching, she almost immediately ordered her elves to rearrange the quarters as needed. The home had four bedrooms and one bath upstairs with a powder room on the first floor. With Hermione in the largest room and Rose and Jordan sharing a bunk, Pansy requested the other two rooms for herself and the coming child. 

As the tall woman strode down the hallway, Ron watched her with a grim expression. 

"I brought something for you, as a...'thank you' of sorts." Holding out her hand, between her fingers, Pansy held tickets. She wore a pencil skirt and patterned blouse, unbuttoned just enough to see the top of her just shy of appropriately restrained bust. Unable to control himself around larger breasts, Ron's eyes imperceptibly dipped. Hermione could hardly judge the man, she also enjoyed breasts of many sizes and shapes, and the sight was something to behold, though certainly not uncommon. 

Clearing his throat, Ron crossed his arms and turned away with an angry low voice, "I don't need your blood money." Breasts or not, the woman was still Pansy Parkinson and he clearly wasn't going to let the display get to him. 

"Ron," Hermione began, stepping forward. The woman was trying to be... nice, in a way. It set a bad example for him to be rude to Pansy, even if the girls were out back at the moment. 

"It's quite alright, he isn't far off, after all." Pansy smirked and set the tickets on the island, regardless.

"And if you intend to keep elves in this house, you must first set them free. Our children will not grow up and benefit from your slave labor," Ron blustered as an elf popped next to Pansy, carrying a bassinet twice her small size.

Arching a brow at the outburst, Pansy slowly pivoted back to face Ron. "I was under the impression that this was Granger's house, now," she spoke fluidly, "unless I am mistaken?"

An internal part of Hermione cheered at the counter-point, at the truth that Ron had overstepped in his zeal to make a point against Parkinson.

As Ron's face reddened, Parkinson continued, "And what makes you think they aren't free already?" Her voice had dropped far below her usual snide falsetto and the smile in her eyes glittered coldly.

While Ron spluttered, Hermione eyed the elf at Pansy's side before eyeing the taller woman. She looked slightly less peaky today, Hermione wondered if she had tried Molly's potion. "Are they free from their masters? Free to come and go as they please? Do you pay them?"

With a snide delight, Pansy's smile warmed mirthlessly as she stared intensely at Hermione, "Why yes, they are and I do. Ursa," Pansy addressed the elf struggling beneath the bassinet, "Would you please find a place for the baby's bassinet before addressing Ms. Granger's concerns for your welfare."

"Yes, mistress," Ursa replied promptly before disappearing with a loud crack.

Ron's face reddened further and he grumbled his way to the kitchen.

"Anything else, Granger?" 

Pansy's smirk really was starting to irritate her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More crying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clutchy jerk of life continues for Hermione.

With the one bathroom upstairs in the old home, Pansy was beside herself at the prospect of sharing it with everyone else.

"And...you don't have another bathroom? Perhaps a shower?" her diffident tone faltered slightly as she looked over the tiled room filled with the girls' bathroom toys and the clutter of Harry and Hermione's products.

Keeping the self-satisfied grin to herself, Hermione replied "Harry and I planned to build an extension in five years to accommodate the girls as they grew older." Swallowing the bittersweet notion of building it without him, she tried to keep her emotions in check. Grieving made being petty hard and added a layer of irritation on top of the petty and bittersweet cake that was now her bathroom. 

"Of course," Pansy replied stiffly, clearly unimpressed. "I'm sure we can all... share."

"Naturally," Hermione agreed, the taste of the petty layer settling happily in her belly at Pansy's obvious dismay. 

Nearly a week later, they were still figuring out a bathing schedule between the girls, Pansy, and herself. More than once, Hermione found herself nearly late to work due to Pansy's morning sickness that gripped the woman for nearly two hours each morning.

Morning sickness was a known routine for Hermione, but as she needed to get to work on time, the process began to prove most frustrating even with compassion. Spelling oneself clean was doable, of course, but it wasn't the same for Hermione, who craved the feel of a real shower. On top of that, Hermione could not figure out why the woman couldn't have a bowl bedside, in case of emergencies, and then vanish the sick once done. Gag, barf, wand-swish, done. But for some reason, the woman seemed intent to only get sick in the bathroom and so here they all were.

Determined to bathe before work (and properly tame her hair), Hermione jumped into the shower a half hour early, hoping to beat Pansy to the punch. As she began conditioning the lengthy mass, the door burst open with a gasping "Rose downstairs" before the lid slammed up and Pansy emptied the contents of her stomach. There was a weak splash and then a familiar racking sound. 

Wincing at the gagging dry heave and remembering her own experiences, Hermione again wondered if Pansy had brewed any of Molly's potion since she had moved in to the house. A forceful heave was followed by a small whimper that was cut short with another heave, and Hermione's heart clenched as she quickly calculated; Pansy was--at least--eight or nine weeks along now. If her pregnancy with Rose was similar, Pansy's situation was only going to get worse in the next four weeks. The thought had her own stomach clenching. 

Turning off the taps and grabbing a towel, Hermione wrapped her hair quickly and wrapped her second towel about herself. Instead of puttering about like a sod, she pulled the curtain aside with a quiet "Morning" as she stepped carefully out of the room. 

* * *

After work, Hermione chopped up veggies while the girls played on their tablets. Magic or no, she wanted her daughters to understand muggle technology so that they could have the option to navigate either world. Uninterested in preparing a full meal, she pulled out chicken nuggets and threw them into the stove, casting a spell on the timer over her shoulder. From there she dropped the requisite water and rice into the rice cooker and set at the island to chop vegetables while the rest of the food cooked. 

Pansy sat in the recliner in the corner, perusing the muggle journals Hermione had accumulated throughout the years. Furtively shooting glances at the woman, Hermione took in the myriad of traits that comprised Pansy: midnight hair that hung in a long bob, tight shirts, long legs that folded up often and akimbo, and a singular scowl affixed nearly permanently. Her complexion had returned to its previous pallid quality, but under that was a faded deeper color never noticed before. 

Sure, she was decent on the eyes, but in the week since she'd moved in, Pansy had hardly done much more than wander near wordlessly in and out of the house. It was discomfitting. 

What had Harry seen in this woman? What had he seen that warranted creating and sharing new life? The treacherous thought she had been pushing down since the solicitor's office wriggled adamantly under the skin like rising buberpuss blisters: _Had Harry wanted to be freed from his life with her? Had he not shared his relationship with Pansy because he feared the weight of her judgment?_

_Had Harry wanted something else? Had he wanted Pansy and not her? Was he sick of their family?_

"Would you like help with that?" Pansy's tone was carefully polite with the children in the room, but her eyes narrowed, having caught Hermione eyeing her. 

It had to be her tits, Hermione decided as she looked up from Pansy's chest. 

"No, I'm quite alright, thank you." 

Focusing back on the task at hand, Hermione briskly deposited the veggies into a bowl and checked the nuggets. Almost done. 

"Rose, Jordan, time to wash up," she called as she pulled out plates and flatware. "Care to join?" she offered despite not wanting Pansy's company. 

For all of the aloof behaviors, Pansy seemed to genuinely consider the invitation before accepting. 

With how pale she looked, it would hardly be a stretch to imagine the amount of hunger through the nausea. 

Hermione set the extra plate and fork on the counter and served the girls. 

* * *

Two nights later, Hermione sat rather unceremoniously at the table after getting the girls to bed and taking her shower, determined to get through the latest ministry reports. 

Pansy shuffled in from the front door, but upon seeing Hermione at the island, stiffened. The woman went upstairs and Hermione could hear the faint sounds of her settling in for the night. The footsteps descended slowly and Pansy, still peaky, distantly joined her at the island. 

"Good evening," she sniffed towards Hermione. 

"Mm, evening, Parkinson." Hermione had meant to offer the potion she'd brewed days ago, but Pansy had snapped at Rose for shouting while chasing Jordan around the house. It was petty and small - minded, but Hermione felt indignant on her daughter's behalf. Having fun was not a crime and Rose should not have to mitigate Pansy's emotional state; out of the two of them, Rose was, after all, the child. 

Deciding to share, Hermione made the offer. "I'm not sure if you brought a cauldron, but I crafted a batch of Molly's potion for you. I keep a cauldron in the front room for brews and such. You're welcome to use it." 

There was a silent moment behind the parchment that Hermione determinedly ignored until Pansy cleared her throat and said a quiet _thank you._

"It's in the fridge along the bottom shelf on the door. That shelf has a stasis charm, fyi." 

Pansy opened the appliance and paused, assessing the three small bottles. "Efwy? These have been here since Tuesday." 

"FYI--muggle shorthand term: for your information." Hermione ignored the statement, favoring to remain focused on her work. 

"Half a glass should suffice a morning, and sip on it throughout the day, if needed. Do not," she advised, "take more than one each day." Recalling the day she'd drank more than one, she had ended up more gassy than a petrol station. 

Pregnancy farts were brutal and not to be trusted.

Curiosity got the better of her when the unbroken silence from Pansy continued. Looking up, she found Parkinson smirking. 

"Of course, I imagine you have your own methods, I do not mean to presume." 

The smirk twitched. "I never pegged you as a withholding bint."

"And I never pegged you a slag." Hermione turned the page on the report and scanned the statistics and trending graph. 

A begrudgingly delighted laugh, high pitched and nasal, burst from the taller woman as she sipped the potion. "Harry had always maintained you had a slytherin sense about you." 

"Oh, is this when we share sap stories of our school days now that you've made your claim on Harry's home? Feeling secure are we?" It was late and Hermione was tired and there was no excuse for her rudeness. 

Glancing up, Hermione saw a flash of pain before Pansy's features walled off and she set her jaw. The woman's presumption just set an inferno off inside of her and it _burned._

"Are we to sit and hold hands as we share in our grief of a man? Shall we bond over his antics now?" Unable to control the burning rage, Hermione let it loose. "Shall we parry emotional barbs like children for the duration, as well?" Deciding she wanted to be in this moment, Hermione raised her eyes and set the report down. 

A slow demure smile spread on Pansy's face. "Tell me, Granger, you think he tired of you?" 

The innuendo was blatant, but unimaginative. Sex had never been the foundation of either of her relationships with Harry and Ron. For some people the comment would rile, but for Hermione, it fell short. 

"I can only imagine Harry tired of most things and people, but as he died without ever mentioning your pregnancy, I am left to conclude that he had." At that thought, a lot of the anger began waning. She considered sniping again, but decided that of the two of them, she'd be the only one to wake with regret. 

The hot prick behind her eyes burned even as tears fell. "I cannot speak for Harry's thoughts, or his feelings, but he _was_ loved." She could not hold on to the anger like she wanted, so she fiercely defended herself with earnestness. 

The defense proved effective and the two sat silently apart in their grief for a long while. 

Then a small clearing of her throat and stocky words "Would you show me how to cook those chicken nuggets?" 

Scoffing, Hermione determined it was better to feed a starving pregnant woman than not and got up from the table to show her the freezer and oven settings. 

Sat in front of the finished plate of nuggets with a bottle of Worcester shire in hand Pansy shook the sauce over the kids food. Eating a nugget carefully, she chewed slowly, waiting. Then another. Before long the plate was empty and she blinked, as if surprised that such a thing were possible. 

Taking a deep breath, Pansy seemed to resolve something before speaking, "Harry wanted me to come over and meet... his girls. He said Rose could outwit a snitch from its wings. He loved that she has his mother's eyes," she paused and swallowed, "but sometimes wished she had gotten yours." Fingernail tracing the edge of the potion glass, Pansy sat stiffly. 

Frozen in all places, but her heart, Hermione wanted to cry. Or to stop crying. 

What she really wanted was Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost got through the entire chapter without crying, but then I hit the end and apparently wanted to punish myself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW at the end

She was fairly confident that the potion had done the trick because Pansy had been getting up and going out in the mornings and staying out late in the evenings.

In fact, she hadn't even noticed that Pansy had been gone all day until Ron settled on the couch after getting the girls to bed. "Where's Parkinson? Isn't she ralphing all the time now?" 

"Not anymore," she explained as she straddled his lap, "I gave her Molly's recipe." It had been over a week since he'd moved out and over five days since they had last had sex, and after the incredibly tedious week at the ministry, she was aching for attention. Elbow and shoulder feeling relatively fine, she was more than eager to get started.

"Oi," Ron softly murmured as she rolled her hips on his lap. "Wait--" he blurted as his brain cells caught up with the words "You gave my Mum's recipe to that bint?" 

Suppressing the eye roll, Hermione twisted her hips and then spread her knees further, searching out his length. "Yes, Ron," she explained, "It's my house and I'll take care of things as I see fit." His hand slid over her breast and the heat sent pulses between her legs. "Can we get back to this?" she pressed while grinding down harder. 

Lifting up slightly with impatience, she reached down and unzipped his slacks, her knuckles scraping against the fabric. Both of them shuffled and groaned as she found a smooth fit, the stiffening length hardening and hot in her palm. The sensation sent pulses between her legs and she kissed him forcefully. 

Eyes widening, a small smile spread across his face. "What's gotten into you?" he asked, hands grasping her hips and thrusting up slowly. 

"Coming menses," she groaned with an airy breath, fingers digging into his shoulders as she ground harder. It was well known that she became both irrationally easy to anger and lust when pmssing. 

At this, Ron's eyes darkened and his smile widened. "Well, then," his hand found its way under her shirt, "What about Parkinson?" He jerked his head to the side as if to ask. "Upstairs?" 

"Pansy should be gone a while. Now," she demanded. 

"Well, then," he gruffed happily.

And then he pushed her onto the floor and as she crushed her lips to his neck she felt his fingers make a pass through her slick folds. 

"God yes," she rasped. 

Twisting his fingers between her legs, he adjusted his hand and began pumping rhythmically. Thank Morgana—and Harry if she were truthful—that the once stumbling dolt was now a rather fantastic lay, prone to patience more often than not, and able and willing to participate in foreplay instead of rushing in and collapsing in five minutes. 

The drag of his fingers caught the right angle and she clenched her fingers into his hair with words of encouragement as her breath hitched. "Harder," she demanded, feeling the familiar slow itch of an orgasm. 

Everything was wanted twice as much when she was pmssing, but it paired with an odd delay of sorts, the ease with which she usually came replaced with a need to feel things harder and faster. Ron had come to thoroughly enjoy her time of the month, often relishing in slow, but punishing sex play that drew out her pleasure with sensual sadism. On planned days, the two could spend hours in their bedroom, tying each other up, scratching down each other's bodies, delaying the other's pleasure in order to heighten the release. And also because they discovered that Ron enjoyed having power over her. He may have become much more secure, but at the core, he still craved control.

"Look at that," he muttered into her ear as his knuckles pounded between her legs. 

Whimpering at the strength, she gripped his forearm and shoulder, flushing hot all over as she began to come. The tickling coil inside tightened and then exploded as he dragged the pads of his fingers over her gspot, pulses of bliss thrumming like rapid-fire up from her core and through her arms. He suddenly pulled his hand away and she growled.

"More," she exhaled even as Ron kneeled between her legs and aligned his cock.

Gripping his arms as he worked himself deeper, she keened for more. In response, Ron dropped his mouth over her shoulder and sucked hard, teeth scraping harshly over her flushed skin.

"Ron," pushing her hips up continuously, she groaned, "Faster." 

In response, Ron pulled her close and shifted, gripping her hip with one hand and stabilizing himself with the other, picked up speed. Everything around her felt hot--Ron's lips on her skin, his broad shoulders hovering above, the snap of his hips between her thighs. Moving to the other side of her neck he bit roughly and the thrill of it shot down her spine. 

Back roughly scraping over the woven rug, a memory of Harry's wide palms on her waist flashed. "Harder," she commanded, biting the base of Ron's throat and digging her fingers into his short thick hair. One of his own hands pushed behind her neck and cradled the back of her head before grabbing a thick handful of her hair and twisting. Her mouth dropped open in a gasp and soundless whimper.

Ever the obliging lover, Ron raised up to pin her hips down. "Miones," he rasped as his hefted into her forcibly and at a snapping rhythm. "You ready to come for me?" his words muffled into her hair.

Bright scratching pain that burned along her back and shoulder blades as Ron worked Hermione thoroughly. The bloom of a coming second orgasm crawled up her ribs, and as his hips forced hers wider, her heart stuttered. "Yes," she cried out, feeling her own mind begin to blank.

"Tha's my good girl," his hips jerked, signalling his own pending release, even as he kept his rhythm steady. Sucking her neck again, he gave her the permission she hadn't known she needed, "Come for me." 

Tears pricked behind her eyes and her chest cracked as open as her body, flooding with intense numbing pleasure that exploded from inside her bones. Unable to open further, her limbs stretched as Ron kept pounding for another moment until he, too, came. The flutter inside lit her up and she cried out unintelligibly as her orgasm peaked, shaking through her body like an electric earthquake, rending the large tracts of her and crumbling the rest.

Collapsing to her side, Ron gathered her close and she sobbed into his neck, his well-trimmed beard scratching the top of her head as the numbness sank through her mind and took over. The arm that wrapped about her squeezed her tightly and she felt it force the air out of her body, calming her sobs. Breathing in the woodsy scent of his skin (he had told her to buy him "nice soap for a sod" last year), Hermione spread her palms and pressed gently to signal a need for space. 

From her side she fell back onto her back and continued to take deep breaths. Looking up at the ceiling, she saw nothing. She felt nothing. Closing her eyes, she exhaled and counted the familiar paces of her breathing. Then, nothing.

Oblivion.

She sank into the emptiness for a bit before blinking back into the present. Not wanting to push her luck with Pansy out of the house, Hermione dropped the silencing charm and began pulling her shirt back together. When she lined up the button and eyelet, however, the rest of the shirt pulled open. Looking down, Ron had torn the shirt and left a myriad of red and purple bite marks all over her chest. Poking one until it smarted, she judged the bruise deep enough with a smile. Her jeans were attached at an ankle and she had no idea where her socks went. 

Ron's shirt was half undone, pants about his knees as he remained on the floor, squinting up at her with one of his Auror-trained inscrutable expressions. Scanning him from head to toe, Hermione chuckled thickly, throat constricted from their activity and her crying.

As she ruffled her fingers over the short shag, Pansy's voice rang out from the front of the house, "Granger? You home?" 

Footsteps shuffled through the hallway and the two partner shared an "oh shit" before scrambling to get their clothes back together. Head down as she furiously began buttoning up the shirt, Hermione muttered an _accio_ under her breath to call for her wand.

"Granger? Can you hear me?" Pansy emerged from the hallway and turned slowly, peering in the kitchen Then drifted to the fridge and opened it to look inside.

Hermione tripped on her jeans as her wand flew across the dining table and hit her chest. Grabbing at it, she fumbled for a second before she cast a quick _reparo_ on her chest, the shirt mending itself right as Pansy turned from the appliance, coke in hand.

Everything seemed to freeze the moment Pansy's eyes landed on the two witches barely dressed in the living room. Her round eyes bugged for just a moment, tracing down Hermione's naked thighs and then over Ron's hunched frame.

"Oh," she said delicately. If she had been surprised, it hardly showed. "Well, then," she smirked, the cracking the soda can loud in the silence, her glittering eyes lingering on them as they finished tucking and zipping demurely. After Ron and Hermione got their clothes righted, Pansy sipped from the can and drawled, "I suppose I should give you another five minutes?" And with a smug raise of her chin, walked back out of the kitchen.

Heaving a giant breath, Ron laughed as Hermione groaned. "Right," he said. Then his eyes narrowed as he thought aloud, "You think she saw us...before?"

"Ronald," she chuckled, trying to chastise as she stepped closer to finish buttoning his shirt. It was a bit mortifying and a bit odd to be caught _in delicto_ by her dead partner's pregnant partner, wasn't it? But even as she cleared her throat and began processing the moment, she couldn't quite bring herself to feel embarrassed or awkward. 

Leaning back to wink at Hermione he shimmied his shoulders. "You think Harry pulled the stick out of her ass before he—"

With a sharp glare, Hermione cut his question short. "Ronald."

* * *

A few days later, Hermione settled at the table to go over paperwork when Pansy strolled in and began pouring herself a cup. Since the incident, neither had broached the subject, and Hermione had no intention of doing so. But as she turned another sheaf over, Pansy settled into the seat across from her and blew gently over the tea.

Despite the odd arrangement, Hermione found herself wanting to ask about the pregnancy, ask how Pansy was feeling. Had she made any plans? Had she seen a midwife? Holding back the curiosity had been an exercise in patience for Hermione, and she prided herself on pushing, even though she was intensely curious. Having a baby was a big deal. A _big_ big deal and she wanted to help, even though it was unlikely her help was not wanted.

"Should I expect more exhibitions in the future?" 

Then again. Glancing up, she noted Pansy's color had returned somewhat. "No," she returned flatly as she focused on the sheet in front of her. 

"Pity," the woman remarked drily, clearly not meaning it.

Resigning that she was to have this conversation, Hermione raised her eyes and looked at Parkinson. The woman really could be striking at certain times, with her high cheek bones and sharp jaw line. Full lips twitched before taking another sip and Hermione could see why Harry had been drawn to her.

"I did not mean for that to happen," Hermione explained. "It won't happen again."

Pansy's cold eyes moved over Hermione. "Clearly people grieve in many ways."

"Excuse me?" Hermione's eyes flashed. 

"It must be difficult not to have him around anymore." Pansy quipped lightly and sipped. 

"Let's get one thing clear, Parkinson," Hermione warmed up, "You are new to this house and the history it holds. You want to discuss why you're even _here_ , let's. You want to come into my home with Harry's other children and act like this? Sod off."

Pansy's jaw worked itself as she clearly searched for her own words.

"I accept you into this home because Harry, for whatever reason, saw something in you," Hermione said lowly. "But your name is not signed to this home. Mine is. So if there's something of Harry's you want here, you would be wiser not to trade insipid barbs with me."

Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. Good. Pansy took a deep breath and schooled her features again. "I... loved Harry."

"You have an odd way of showing it," Hermione interjected stiffly.

Pansy remained calm as she raised and eyebrow and waited to see if Hermione had anything else to add. "I hadn't meant to fall in love him," she admitted, taking another sip. "I had meant to shag his brains out and walk away."

Typical, but not unheard of when it came to many of Harry's paramours. Hermione imagined Harry hadn't cared much how things progressed with Pansy, either, if his past were an indicator. _I don't sleep around, Herm, I just...have moods_ , he'd say and then laugh when she rolled her eyes. Which is why Pansy seemed an odd choice--but then again, maybe her chilly demeanor was something that scratched an itch for him. Not many wixen took off their rosy glasses when looking at and chasing the Auror. Pansy's obvious disdain was probably a welcome reprieve. Considering that hangers-on were an automatic turn off, Hermione could imagine Harry popping a stiff from a sharp-tongued rejection.

"And I did," Pansy stated simply with a shrug. "For a year."

Hermione had no idea how that felt, she had been a part of his life since they were eleven. _Friends first_ , he had insisted the first time, his emerald eyes sharp and almost angry as he looked up from between her thighs. No matter how often or not they cornered each other and stripped each other bare, he had always insisted _friends_. 

"And one day, we met in Diagon Alley and he was... being a mangy tosser. I mailed him a broom and told him to replace the one up his arse." Pansy's stiff features flickered in pain before she continued. 

"I'm sure he was charmed," Hermione reacted, imagining the moody man gruffly laughing.

A flicker of pride and another sip. "He had become so—" Pansy cut herself short and inhaled, looking down at the cup. 

Become what? Had become important to Pansy? Had become so intense the last few weeks because of the terminal illness eating him inside that he never bothered to mention? 

This Hermione could understand—loving Harry; his simple ways oftentimes hiding the depth of his experiences and intensity of his feelings. Falling in love with Harry was easy—he spoke plainly and gave freely. But keeping him as a friend wasn't the same. It couldn't be when trust was a hardened test that could only be earned by fire or time. A person can be used as a media fuckboy only so many times before gaining a tougher hide.

Clearing her throat and glaring at Hermione, Pansy finally explained, "I loved him. And we didn't plan...this," Pansy set her jaw and raised her chin. "But I don't have anything of his. You always—" Pansy cut herself off and looked away. "He loved me, but he never explained... you."

In spite of the fact that this cold woman symbolized so much wrong with the pre- and post-war magical world, Hermione's heart clenched. She had never played second fiddle because she had never played. Her love and relationships were never competitions to win or claim. And here sat a woman Harry had loved, and she was sure he had loved Pansy in his way, who had nothing but the trappings of monogamy and an unplanned pregnancy with a dead man.

If the roles were reversed, Pansy would have laughed in her face, but Hermione couldn't do that to a woman Harry had loved, to Harry's future child.

Looking over her shoulder at the door, Hermione calculated that Rose would be seven (in approximately two months) when she gained another sibling. Jordan would be four, but be turning five shortly after. Rose would be getting her first broom and her first father would not be there, cheering her on through her trials and tribulations. Hermione's throat clenched at the realization that Harry's spontaneous purchases months earlier for his daughters were because he knew he wouldn't be picking out any more presents. 

_Can you blame me?_ he asked, his smile quirked to the side.

Hermione breathed as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't cry at this one! SCORE!
> 
> CW: This chapter is pretty much het smut. Which... I think I got the mechanics right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy begins finding her footing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along my updates, I accidentally deleted a portion of this chapter and had deleted my backup, as well. (genius, I'm aware.) So I've gone back and rewritten the missing sections to the best of my memory.

Instead of the usual cold shoulder, Pansy had begun making a bit more of an effort since that night. Not a lot, but Hermione hadn't expected much, either. After all, there was only so much she could expect of a woman who was too proud to meet her purported lover's best friends and his children until after he died.

For all of the changes recently, the children had come to accept their new arrangement. After all, Ron was there most weekday evenings and they would all go over to stay at his new place every other weekend just about. Much to her and Ron's dismay, however, Jordan began to notice Pansy and after an afternoon where Pansy deigned to have tea with the girl while Rose worked on her math facts, Jordan took to Pansy like a duck to water. 

But as distressing as it felt at first, it was twice so for Parkinson, who often froze with wide eyes and flared nostrils, looking to Hermione for... permission? An excuse? An out? Whatever it was that she expected, Hermione refused to give it to the woman. Every time Jordan asked Pansy a question, invited her to tea, asked to play unicorns and hippogriffs, Hermione met Pansy's stare with a calm blank stare of her own or a sardonic and encouraging smile.

Parkinson begrudgingly accepted that Jordan was taken with her, and when Jordan expressed a profound wish one morning to go to the Museum of Magical Creatures to specifically see the unicorns on display (which are all replicas), Pansy responded without hesitation, " _Ma petite puce--_ " (for some reason Parkinson also lilted in french) "--why go there when there are conservations?"

Jordan blankly watched Pansy lift her cup of tea.

Clearing her throat, Hermione finished packing both of the girl's lunches and asked "Jordan, do you know what a conservation is?"

The little thing, unsure, kept silent. Smiling, Hermione picked up their lunch bags and slipped them into their bags next to the island. "A conservation is a place where animals are kept safe. So if someone finds a unicorn that is hurt, they can take the unicorn to a conservation where people will care for the animal until it's ready to be set free."

At this information, her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she whipped her head to look back at Pansy, "Have you seen a real unicorn like Mummy?"

This time it was Pansy's turn for her eyes to round and she looked to Granger. "I have seen them, but never in the wild."

"Mummy saw one die," Rose chirped up nonchalantly. Sometimes Hermione wondered if Rose was actually Ron's child.

At this news, Pansy's gaze became intrigued and Jordan's eyes watered.

"Indeed. But seeing one alive is much more exciting!" Hermione pivoted quickly. "Now, tidy up and get your bags, Daddy Ron will be here any minute."

As she followed the jostling girls into the downstairs bathroom to brush their teeth, Hermione gave Pansy a dramatic roll of her eyes before setting the girls' timers.

As Ron arrived via floo, Rose forgot something upstairs and ran off with an unintelligible shout. Ron and Hermione smiled at each other knowingly and smiled again when their oldest came running back, a small glittered paper in her hand. 

"This is for you," Rose held the card out to Pansy who had just risen at the table.

As she gently accepted the card, brow creased gently, Rose continued excitedly "It's so you can come to my party."

The plastic smile on Pansy's face as she cracked the card was as priceless as the muggle glitter that dropped into the woman's tea. "Why, thank you, Rose," the tall woman replied politely. "I would be delighted."

Ron coughed, blatantly unimpressed with the apparent lie, and Hermione glared at him. Her eyes flashed an indignant _not now._

"Great!" Rose nearly shouted in excitement as she dove in for a hug around Pansy's hips.

Pansy's expression went from plastic to borderline frightened, fingers delicately hovering before she patted Rose's back. "There, there," she lamely offered, face contorting into a sense of confusion.

Rose and Jordan ran off with Ron and Pansy stood at the table, looking at her tea. "There's bits in the cup," she murmured, looking up to Hermione for answers. 

"Oh?" Hermione feigned ignorance as Pansy began fishing around the liquid with her spoon. Magical glitter either dissolved or disappeared within seconds after detaching from projects or spelled works. She may have encouraged Rose to use the muggle glitter she kept in the bottom craft drawer.

* * *

"Next month we will be having a birthday party for Rose," Hermione informed Pansy that evening. "A bunch of Weasleys, Shacklebolt, some of the DMLE, and a number of kids will be coming over. Rose invited you, but if you do not wish to go, please let her know."

Pansy shifted at the island, uncomfortably.

At this, Hermione leveled with her, "Rose is turning seven, and even though she is a child, she is a human being. She will be happy if you come and disappointed if you don't come. But do not change your plans for her--disappointment is as much a part of her life as happiness. If you would rather not be here, please be honest with her about it. It is okay to tell the child 'no'." Ron sat in the living room, obviously listening in on the conversation. Though he could sometimes be a wanker, at times like this where he tactfully kept his mouth shut, Hermione was grateful.

Clearing her throat, Pansy's expression remained uncertain. "I will check my plans and get back to you," she hedged. "Is there a gift registry?"

* * *

Saturday was quieter than she had been expecting. The weather was cooler and the kids had fallen into a lassitude. More often than not they were atop each other, intensely engaged, loud, and loving, the next they couldn't stand one another, but unable to walk away. Jordan scribbled over the coloring book page, staccato strokes clenched into a tight fist, brow scrunched as the unicorn and its grassy knoll were struck carnation pink. Ron and Rose were playing exploding snap in the living room, Jordan too young to follow along. Hermione skimmed the Ministry report and kept an eye on the coloring.

“I want to see Daddy Harry.” Jordan said to the page, switching crayons to her favorite color—teal. The mane and sky were riven similarly to the unicorn, the bold color striking out and over all the lines of the sky and background.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione prepared herself to tell her daughter that he was dead again as the girl piped up, “Grandma said we can see Daddy Harry.” The gut punch hit, understanding and acceptance flooded her; Molly must have told Jordan she would see Harry in the afterlife, and Jordan, four years old, clearly thought the afterlife was a place.

Quickly assessing the situation, Hermione turned to Ron. “Ron, did you say you wanted to go biking today?” she asked, eyes pressing meaningfullly to her partner.

Head coming up with confused eyes, Ron quickly caught on and turned to Rose, “Hey, wanna see me pop a wheelie?”

“Yes!” Rose excitedly agreed, jumping up.

Biking had been something that Harry and Hermione had done on lazy weekends; Ron exclaimed after his first painful crotch injury that _It’s barmy to maim one’s bits._

But it hadn’t taken long for Ron to become interested when Harry popped a wheelie, showing off a little.

After that, Ron became fascinated, and after some consternation and frustration, he fell into videos of tricks, eventually coming home one evening with his own freestyle bike. The girls loved it when he showed off to them, and he was a patient teacher willing to watch them through their struggles.

Harry had often swept in to catch their falls, to protect them, feeling so much of their pain as his own. Ron was the goofier dad, though, and he strove to show his girls that even scary things could be fun--would be painful, too. Hermione loved that about Ron, loved that he was undaunted by the hardships of their kids' first attempts to try the big slide, to ride a bike, to get on a broom.

As the two shuffled out to the afternoon grey sky, Hermione turned back to Jordan. “Daddy Harry isn’t alive, Jordan, we can’t go see him,” she explained, knowing that the four-year had no concept of death and its permanence.

The scribbling stopped and she held up the picture, a clash of teal and pink, “I colored this for Daddy Harry.”

“And I’m sure he would love it, Bug,” she said.

“We can see Daddy Harry after snack,” the girl determined with a nod.

Hermione perceived Pansy’s arrival in the front room, disapparating and shuffling upstairs.

“We can visit Daddy Harry at his grave, but we won’t see Daddy Harry,” Hermione explained, chest becoming tighter.

“No,” Jordan asserted confidently, “I want to see Daddy Harry.” Her small redhead mop shook as she glared up at her mother.

Heart breaking a little, Hermione empathized, “I want to see Daddy Harry, too, Jordan, but Daddy Harry is dead. He is gone.” The words almost stuck and she swallowed the hard lump in her throat.

“I want Daddy Harry!” Jordan nearly shouted.

“Daddy Harry is gone. Does it make you sad?” she knelt, trying to get to the heart of it.

“I WANT DADDY HARRY!” Jordan shouted in her face.

Blinking back the fury and pain, Hermione cleared her throat. “I know it hurts, but you do not shout at people to get what you want, Jordan.” She took a deep breath, simultaneously hot and stricken.

“NO! I. WANT. DADDY. HARRY!” red-faced and etched in anger, Jordan shouted at Hermione.

“That’s it, up to your room,” Hermione exhaled hotly and swept up the child, angry noodle limbs flailing. The entire way up Jordan squirmed and screamed.

Depositing the girl on her feet, she gathered another deep breath to exhale before speaking. By this time, Jordan had already begun crying, angry hot tears coursing down her face and small hands fisted at her sides. Obstinate, just like Hermione, Jordan glared, confusion and pain being channeled into her rage.

“Do you want a hug?” she asked, trying to get through the anger.

Jordan nodded, face angry, but eyes incredibly hurt.

“If you hit me, I won’t hug you, though,” Hermione warned. It was not always easy, but after Rose’s temper tantrums two years ago, she and the men had figured out a decent way to handle when the kids would lash out. For Hermione, it was important that her children understand that it was not acceptable to hit people in anger, and that meant not letting them hit herself or their dads when they got angry or hurt.

Hermione’s heart broke as she hugged her daughter on her knees. “I miss Daddy Harry, too. I miss him so much it hurts, sometimes,” she whispered.

Bony thin arms hugged her neck fiercely and Hermione scooped up the small thing and carried her to the bed, sobbing whines and all. Scooting until she was almost against the wall, Jordan draped over her front, she rocked her through her sobs. Eventually the little thing quieted, and exhausted, drifted off. Hermione held fast, grief also robbing her of energy.

A quiet knock on the door had Hermione jerking awake, clutching Jordan carefully. A sharp crick spiked up her neck and she cleared her throat before focusing on the doorway.

In a pair of black jeans and loose blouse, Pansy leaned into the room quietly. “I’ve ordered some takeaway from that Chinese place you like,” she spoke quietly, eyes moving over the two.

“Mm, you didn’t have to do that,” Hermione gruffed. With another deep breath she stretched an arm and winced as the crick twanged again. Carefully, she leaned over and laid the sleeping redhead down before getting up and heading towards the doorway.

Parkinson hovered, and Hermione looked over with a questioning expression. Did she need something?

“You didn’t shout at her,” Parkinson remarked.

Nodding, Hermione considered the connotations. “Well, it wasn’t for lack of wanting to,” she explained, thinking of her very sensitive reactions when people shouted at her. “I have yelled, in the past,” she continued, “because it’s hard, sometimes.” Another deep breath and a glance back at Jordan, “I have bad days.” Sometimes Hermione didn’t have the patience to be kind when she woke up with a headache and twinge in her arm, nerves jittery and wild. Sometimes her blood just snapped under her skin and she was ready—zero to seventy—so ready for a fight. Another deep breath in and look at Parkinson, “But I’m her mum. And when it comes down to it, I’m the person in their corner. When the world comes at them, when they’re hurt, I want them to come to me—because that’s what family is supposed to do—to help.”

Undecipherable, Parkinson nodded.

Slightly uncomfortable, Hermione shrugged off the look, “So why Chinese?”

Parkinson smirked. “You hadn’t started things and Ron isn’t staying tonight. I made an executive decision.”

At this, Hermione quietly chuckled. “An executive decision for Chinese?” She looked down the blouse and back up “Nothing to do with cravings?”

Rolling her grey eyes, Parkinson smirked again. “I didn’t want to watch you cry while making dinner, you can get emotional.” Her expression remained unchanged.

Snorting, Hermione straightened and winced as the crick snapped painfully on the side. If the hormones had started, Parkinson was probably also feeling extra emotional alongside cravings. “Right,” she said.

* * *

Cuddling back against Ron, Hermione sighed, letting a small plea edge into her voice, “Give me a neck rub before you go?” Over the shoulder where the crick did not twinge, Hermione gave Ron her best doe-eyed look.

Parkinson had settled at the kitchen for a cup and reading, Ron was cuddling a bit before heading out, and all in all, it was a pleasant evening.

“Alright, but no whinging,” he stipulated.

Huffing, Hermione wriggled. “Just don’t dig into my neck, really,” she countered.

“Whinge or rub, you can’t have both,” he put forth.

Conceding the point, she shuffled down to the floor in front of the couch and dipped her head forward slowly to not spike the nerve.

Slowly Ron began rubbing and it was quite pleasant, until he dug under her ear and she winced, “Not there!” she stressed, gripping the edge of coffee table. His hands were amazing in so many ways, she really could not fathom how he couldn’t understand being _gentle_ around her neck.

“”Miones,” Ron warned.

“Oh, come off it,” she argued. “Who jabs a thumb where there isn’t muscle?”

“Alright,” Ron conceded and brought his hands away. “I think we should call it here.”

“Fine,” she hotly snipped, itching for a fight. Groaning in frustration, Hermione glared over the one side of her shoulder, silently wishing he’d say something doltish so she could verbally snap at him. Last time he tried giving her a neck rub the two of them had ended up red-faced and frustrated, shouting angrily at each other. Ron had become a rather great partner, but honestly, sometimes he could still be a prat.

“I’ll trade you a neck rub for a foot rub,” Parkinson interjected.

At that, Ron laughed out loud. “Oh! That’ll be the day—Hermione give a foot rub!”

Darkly glaring at Ron, twisting carefully to not spark the neck pain, Hermione let spite rise in her belly. “Okay, Parkinson,” she agreed, trying to ignore the distaste she had for feet. Their shape, their smells, the sometimes really gross way they looked when sweaty and filthy. The odd way a stinky foot could fumigate an entire room on its own in five minutes also seemed to defy physics.

Rationally, she understood feet were a functional and quite useful part of human bodies. Feet were for many people an integral part of their lives and means of transportation and freedom. That stated, Hermione understood that of all of her particulars—this dislike of feet—while it made for a funny point for Ron and Harry, was not altogether overwhelming or debilitating. She had been part of the trio that fought and defeated Voldemort—as a teenager—she should be allowed a few quirks.

At her agreement, Ron bellowed louder, “Harry is laughing from the grave,” he chuffed.

“Really, Ron?” Hermione glowered.

“Parky,” Ron said over her head to Parkinson, who had heretofore remained silent in their exchange and now narrowed her eyes at the nickname, “I’ll PAY you a galleon if she lasts longer than five minutes.”

“Ronald,” Hermione chastised.

“Not worth Granger wrath,” the woman quickly retorted.

“I’ll triple it if she lasts ten,” Ron added, trying to sweeten the deal.

“Shall I send a photo as proof?” Parkinson added, mirth now dancing in her light eyes.

“At this rate, no one is getting anything,” Hermione growled.

“Deal,” Ron assented and got up to leave. Bending down, he kissed Hermione’s forehead and pulled her up into a hug. “Shall I bring you back those pretzels you like?” he asked consolingly.

“Bring yourself a helmet,” she grunted. Then, because she didn’t want to give up the snack out of spite, “And the pretzels,” she sniffed.

With his shoes on and a hand under her chin, he gave her a hasty kiss and was out the floo.

Turning to the kitchen, Hermione pointed, “I get half your earnings,” she threatened.

Smirking, Parkinson raised an eyebrow and agreed easily. “Naturally.”

“Also, I am not…keen on smelly feet,” Hermione hedged, “And I have a nice herbal ointment I can toss together that I used when I was pregnant—would you accept a foot soak before the rub?” The idea of touching regular feet, like when Ron or Harry had asked her for a foot rub after a long day, long-haired toes and thick toenails jutting out, made her skin crawl. And the smell of stinky feet was so difficult to get off of her hands afterward that she really could not fathom touching Parkinson’s feet straightaway.

Parkinson’s eyes laughed, though her smile held firm. “I would not be opposed to such a thing, provided the oils don’t make me nauseous,” she added.

Nodding, Hermione gathered her supplies—peppermint sugar scrub, lemon and lavender oils, and a little bit of salts with the basin. As an afterthought, she grabbed the teatree bottle and dropped in with the other items.

Setting a towel under the basin and handing the oils to Parkinson, Hermione quickly set things up and with an _aguamenti_ , filled the container with water and mixed in the oils, casting a heating charm to keep it warm. Not wanting to be obvious in her distaste, she glanced at Parkinson’s feet as they dipped slowly into the water, testing the temperature.

A low laugh from above startled Hermione, and Parkinson drawled, “Shall I use a scrubbing spell?”

Flushing at being caught, her eyes darted up to the bright humor in Pansy’s look before going to the kitchen. “I would appreciate it,” she said, over her shoulder. “Cup?”

“Chamomile, if you please,” Parkinson requested.

Getting the tea together and settling into the armchair while Parkinson relaxed at the couch, Hermione opened a book of poetry while she waited.

“Do you normally argue over neck rubs?” Parkinson curiously asked.

Sighing, Hermione set the open bind of the book over her thigh, “Yes,” she answered, slightly embarrassed. Other couples argued over other small things, she was sure of it. Neck rubs happened to be their thing.

“Why?” Parkinson pushed.

Sighing, Hermione rolled her head back carefully to relieve some tension. “Honestly, I don’t know.” She considered it again—they _could_ argue about a lot of other things, really. Extra partners, their sexual preferences, how they reared their children, but they didn’t because they agreed on most and accepted the differences in others. And Ron was excellent with a foot rub and decent with back rubs. In thinking about it, maybe he didn’t like giving neck rubs, for whatever reason. And since she abhorred foot rubs, she couldn’t really hold his not wanting to give her neck rubs against him.

“I imagine other people argue about other things—where to send their children to school, who does laundry, etcetera,” Hermione added in thought, “But we don’t really argue that much. There isn’t much we know about each other that we didn’t know before we chose to become partners.”

“Why not marry?” Parkinson pressed further, opening an eye.

This was the point in most conversations where things went awry with people. Another deep breath and Hermione searched herself, weighing how much she wanted to share in the moment, how vulnerable she was willing to be in front of this woman.

“Most people ask that question and then ask why I didn’t just choose one of them,” she replied, tone slightly flatter.

Chuckling, Parkinson closed the eye and leaned back, “Fair enough. But why not, then?”

“Why did you choose to sleep with Harry knowing he was in a relationship with Ron and me?” Hermione countered.

Another laugh and Parkinson opened her eyes, “I was drunk and he was a slag.” Another moment and then, “And I heard he was rather good in the sack. I figured if I were to try fucking a male of the species, I should aim high.”

At that, Hermione chuckled. “The male of the species?”

Shrugging, Parkinson smirked, “I’ve never found…cis-men…appealing. But Harry stopped by our office one day and he was just…Harry, I guess. I’d never really been attracted to a man before.”

Hermione considered Parkinson’s words—so the slytherin was a lesbian? Pansexual?

“So it was just Harry?” Hermione asked, curious.

“Just Harry,” Parkinson concurred. “I don’t imagine I’ll ever be…interested in another man, not genuinely, at least.”

That was certainly not what Hermione had expected, though Ginny had mentioned Parkinson had been in a relationship with Lavender prior to Harry.

“So why not marry?” Parkinson asked again as she cast a scrubbing spell on her feet.

“Magical law currently doesn’t allow multiple partner unions, and I knew I wanted to have children with both of them, but…if I married just Ron or Harry, legal custody could become murky should something happen to me. Not to mention I have no interest in the patriarchal system that currently exists. My children are, by right of birth, mine. Hence the reason half of the estate was left to me. Ron and Harry could take care of their own needs, but we had agreed that since I was the one wanting children the most, and since I wanted to raise them together, that responsibility would fall to me should something happen to either or both of them. Their being aurors was—is—dangerous, after all.”

“That’s… sensible,” Parkinson responded.

Shrugging, Hermione noted the page and poem she was on and closed the book in order to settle in for the foot rub.

“Naturally,” Hermione agreed with a smirk as she vanished the water and toweled off Parkinson’s feet. They smelled quite pleasant now and she appreciated that she had pedicured toes. This wasn’t so bad, she figured. “So tell me, what did you like best about Harry in the bedroom?” If she were honest, Hermione knew what she liked about Harry, but she often wondered how much he shared of their likes with others.

Eyes narrowly assessing Hermione, Parkinson considered before replying. “Shall we share our grief of a man now?”

Shrugging as she picked up a foot and set it over a criss-crossed knee, Hermione eyed Parkinson back, taking in her wide mouth, round eyes, and sharp jaw line. “I’m guessing you were good at blow jobs, but not keen on them. I bet Harry liked to tie you up,” she prodded. Then she had another thought, “Unless of course,” she smugly stated to the arch of Parkinson’s foot as she knuckled underneath it gently, “he liked it better when you tied him up?”

“I’m not discussing sex with you, Granger,” Parkinson cleared her throat. “I’m already worked up and nauseous, as it is.”

Laughing, Hermione squeezed the foot carefully, eliciting a moan from Parkinson. “My apologies, getting you worked up,” she murmured.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger, I’m a walking in a cage of hormones, surrounded by attractive people who are not interested in frigging a pregnant woman. The situation cannot be helped,” she explained.

“Not even Draco would help?”

At this, a bark of laughter erupted from Parkinson. When Hermione didn’t laugh back, she opened her eyes. “Seriously?”

“What?” Hermione was now even more curious how this was so funny.

Eyes leveling down to Hermione’s, Parkinson quirked an eyebrow, “Oh, you are serious,” the woman laughed again and Hermione squeezed the back of her heel—one spot that always made her melt—in order to shut her up. “Oh, mm,” the taller woman settled a little, though the smirk remained. “Draco’s more bent than broken, darling,” she drawled.

Oh.

“Besides, similar to me, I think if Draco were to have an interest in a woman, it’d be you,” Parkinson laughed again. “He couldn’t quite appreciate my…harder edges, he said.”

Thinking of her own body with its stretch marks about her breasts, stomach, and thighs, Hermione couldn’t imagine herself being considered hard at all. But men oftentimes did not understand stretch marks, and Hermione found it rather fortunate that she would not see Draco anytime soon.

“Isn’t he married to Astoria?” she asked.

“Indeed.”

She wrapped her fingers around a stubbly-haired ankle and worked her thumbs in circles. Parkinson huffed through her nose and visibly relaxed at that.

“Draco wouldn’t fancy me,” she asserted.

Another chuckle from Parkinson. “I didn’t say he fancied you, Granger, I said he’s curious.”

“Well that’s illogical,” Hermione concluded. She didn’t like the idea of Draco looking at her like that. “He doesn’t know me.”

“All the easier to fill in the fantasy, my dear,” the dark-haired woman retorted.

Wrinkling her nose, Hermione pivoted subjects, “I’m relieved you don’t have ogre toes.”

“As am I.”

There was a long moment of silence as Hermione considered their situation, “Am I doing alright?”

“You are quite adept, in the face of your disgust,” Parkinson praised. “I had hoped you would be rubbish.”

Snorting, Hermione rolled her eyes, “Switch,” she commanded and set the foot to the side so the other could come up. “You wanted your foot rub to be rubbish?” she asked.

“No, I wanted you to be rubbish at giving me a foot rub,” Parkinson remarked.

“Well that’s immature.”

“As immature as arguing over a foot rub, I imagine,” Parkinson shot back.

Sniffing, Hermione pulled on the toes one-by-one. “Honestly, Ron _was_ being more mature by backing down instead of sniping, and that was appreciated,” she stated, “in hindsight.”

Parkinson laughed low and the smell of lemon and lavender surrounded Hermione.

“Ah, so the mighty Granger likes to indulge in senseless arguments.”

“So the _human_ Granger is refraining from hexing your toes into sausages,” she snarked back.

“Hexing my feet into sausages doesn’t get you out of the trade—” Parkinson cut herself off and twitched a moment. A small frown pushed itself up before the expression fell back into one of neutral disregard.

Continuing the foot rub, Hermione let the interrupted thought go. “So you’re caged and nauseous, how could I help?” At the possible insinuation in her words, Hermione quickly followed up with, “In regards to making this easier, that is.”

Parkinson had become still, weighing whatever thoughts she had internally. “Like I said, Granger, I’d rather not be nauseous.”

“Don’t be spiteful,” Hermione pushed, “Being pregnant has its own…hiccups. Do you have any questions about anything?”

Taking a deep breath, Parkinson dragged the moment out before saying, “Besides figuring out how to cohabitate with my dead boyfriend’s not-wife? No, can’t say I do.”

* * *

"You know," later that night, Ron toweled off from the shower, "I think the girls are wearing pug-face down." Pulling up a pair of boxers, he smirked before his face went on a journey of emotion. "You don't think she'll actually stay, though, right?"

Hermione, already showered and in the bed, murmured "I have no clue." And she didn't.

"But she doesn't belong here," Ron stated as he massaged a leave-in conditioner over his hair. Subtle notes of cedar drifted over and Hermione smiled at the scent. Ron was really starting to enjoy taking care of his body, inside and out, and she adored these small domestic moments they shared.

"But she does," Hermione countered after a thought. "She loved Harry. We loved Harry. We are raising Harry's children, and if all goes well, Pansy will be raising another of his children, too."

"She isn't like us--she said they slagged about for three years, but he barely talked about her and she never came--" Ron was still sitting up on the bed, one foot on the floor, the other slipped under the covers.

She interrupted calmly, "No one is like us, Ron." Stretching her body out and trying to release the stress of Ron's short-sighted prejudices, Hermione yawned and let a hand drift over his shoulder. "But Harry loved her, too. You have your opinions, but I'm not going to bash the woman for having a complicated relationship with one Harry Potter." As an afterthought to further twist the knot she could hear forming in Ron's briefs, she added "Besides, if my estimate is correct, Ursa makes more money than you when you first became an Auror. I'd say that even if Pansy is not like us, she at least has the decency to be interesting."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione comes home to find Draco and Pansy in her kitchen. Later, the two women share a toast.

When Hermione walked out of the fire place and dusted herself off, she hadn't expected to find Draco Malfoy seated at her table, Pansy gesticulating midair. 

"Oh," her hands stopped over her thighs, "hello." 

Draco smirked. "Hi." 

"I hope you don't mind," Pansy explained as her brows furrowed, "I thought you and the girls were off to Molly's." 

"We were," Hermione gestured, "Or rather, they were." Hermione cleared her throat and walked to the fridge where she began to search the top with her hand. "And I don't mind," she responded. Gathering her thoughts, she rummaged around her errands and chores that she had planned while the kids were at Molly's. "We spent the morning together and Molly is watching them tonight. I was planning to do some cleaning, if you don't mind me casting a few spells about. Then I would be out of your hair." 

Pansy looked to Draco as Draco eyed Hermione. 

Steadfastedly ignoring Draco's blatant lack of manners, Hermione huffed and stepped back from the fridge. Rising up to her tiptoes, she angled her chin upward to look for the small carton she kept for these rare moments of privacy. 

"You won't find any biscuits, Ron polished those off Thursday." 

Shooting a quick smile that Pansy had taken notice of their habit of hiding a few of their good snacks from the girls, Hermione eyed the top of the fridge again before casting a wandless _accio._

Instead of the pack drifting from the fridge, it hit Hermione on the shoulder and she snatched at it, almost crushing the cardboard. 

"Thank Morgana," she breathed as she pulled out a cigarette. Looking up, both slytherins watched her with wide eyes. "I don't mind if you bummed a jack." Really it wasn't a big deal if Pansy had a few. "But if there's only a few left, do be considerate and grab another pack," she said as she tossed the box back on the table and walked to the back porch. 

Closing the door behind herself, Hermione collapsed into the patio chair and lit the fag. Taking in a deep puff, she blew it out slow and steady. 

It was Harry's birthday and they'd gone to his grave in the morning with the girls. Biting her lip, she looked out across the small yard and sighed. She had planned to have a really good jag and have some _alone_ alone time. Sit with a book, feel the silence, not have to speak or listen to any person. 

Unconsciously she sneered at the the lazy drift of the cigarette's tip. Even with one less person around she still couldn't find space to just...breathe. 

Harry, you left a bloody mess.

 _Well, happy birthday to me,_ she heard his judgy voice in the back of her mind and could almost see him crossing his arms and smirking. _If you're going to be crotchety, at least share._ She swiped the back of her hand under an eye and took a deep steadying breath.

Harry had never stopped criticizing her occasional dalliance with cigarettes, but he had also insisted she share them. He figured she'd smoke less if she was being harangued all the while. Truth was, she didn't care much when Harry bugged her; she smoked because it felt bad. Something to match for the times she hadn't the wherewithal to fake it.

He had known that, too, of course. 

The sliding door opened and the other two alumni stepped out and lit theirs. Closing her eyes, she pretended the house was drifting away and all that surrounded her dropped into an infinite abyss.

"So. You smoke." Draco squinted at Hermione in the afternoon sun.

Apparently it had been too optimistic to expect they'd keep to themselves. "And?" 

"You're not going to chastise Pansy for having a smoke?" he gestured to the taller woman currently blowing out a white stream. 

Eyes moving over Pansy, Hermione took a long drag. "Even if my opinion mattered, no. Being knocked up... Can be a bloody bitch." She blew again and looked back to the yard, wishing Harry could be there to take the piss out of Draco. "Besides, Pansy wouldn't listen to me eighth year potions with our term project on the line. What makes you think she'd listen to me now?" 

Draco laughed and Pansy smirked. He waved his hand around her midsection. "It's Harry's baby." God, even wixen patriarchy was still the same stupid patriarchy.

"It's Pansy's body." 

Draco was quiet a moment before drawling, the cherry between his lips. "You going to share the whiskey I saw up there, too?" 

"Draco," Pansy warned lowly, clearly reading something Hermione didn't have the fucks to try figuring out. 

"No," Hermione's somewhat playful sense immediately deflated. "That's Harry's. Was." 

The silence held as the three hunched over on the sun lit porch and puffed away until Hermione crushed her butt and vanished it with a flick of her fingers. 

"I'll be quick in the downstairs so you don't have to fight off the tumbleweeds while pratting about," she stated as she went in to clean. 

Draco saluted with his half smoked cigarette and Pansy nodded. 

Hearing a low _thwack_ and a grumble soothed the less civilized part of her. 

* * *

The bubble bath was hot, uncomfortable, and she cried through suppertime. 

Ever since the night with Ron in the living room, Hermione had modified her silencing charm to let outside noises in while blocking sounds from getting out--she doesn't know why she hadn't used this spell before--they had used it rather frequently when the girls were toddlers. 

Muffled sounds of Ron thumping up the stairs drifted quietly through the door and Hermione waited for him to come inside. After a long wait, she guessed he wasn't coming in and heaved a sigh. It just figured that the one day Hermione needed to herself had been the day Pansy finally brought someone over. And that person had to be Malfoy.

In truth, she had thought they'd see Pansy at the grave. 

With a sigh of frustration, she pulled the plug and quickly rinsed before toweling dry. 

Emerging from the bathroom and heading to her own, she found Ron passed out on the bed sideways. The fool must have gotten soused and stumbled back just far enough to drape unceremoniously over the entire thing. Walking over, she rubbed the back of his neck and gave him a kiss on the muss of hair over his temple. 

Determining that moving a lumbering Ron was not worth the effort as she brushed her teeth, Hermione chalked the day up as a sign that she was going to have to be more vocal about her needs. Donning her knickers and dressing gown, she headed downstairs. She could read on the couch for a few. 

She put the pot on the stove, pulled out a mug and the honey, and measured some of Pansy's chamomile. Maybe she would pull out the tablet and check in on the muggle news. Looking out the dark window over the sink as she waited, she closed her eyes. 

"Couldn't sleep?" 

Pansy's voice was quiet and soft in the static cushion of the dim kitchen. Hermione turned, looking over her shoulder and pressed her lips together, tilting her head to the side with a shrug.

"I'm sorry Draco was a prat." 

It sounded like she meant it, but it didn't matter. "You want a cup?"

Watching Hermione closely with her light eyes, Pansy nodded. "Please."

Gathering another cup and items, she spoke over her shoulder "Honey?"

"Mm, always," Pansy intoned from the end of the island, still watching.

Hermione huffed a small smile. Pansy had that in common with Harry. He hadn't had much of a sweet tooth beyond chocolate frogs, but he had to have honey in his herbals.

On impulse, Hermione pulled a third mug down and prepped it the same as Pansy's. If anyone had questioned it, she would have replied she didn't know why. 

As she capped the honey, Pansy interjected, "Another for him."

Her hands froze and a lump formed in her throat. Then, determined, she took a shaky breath and cleared her throat as she spooned more honey.

The kettle whistled low and Hermione poured Pansy and Harry's teas first. There wasn't enough water for hers since the pot had been half full when she came down, so she refilled it and put it back on the stove.

"Why not heat the water yourself?" the taller woman absently stirred her tea, bobbing the egg with a unicorn atop. Harry had given it to Jordan for Christmas and their daughter had beamed so happily, small fingers tracing the glittered stripes of the mane.

"I prefer it this way," Hermione murmured to the pot. There were some muggle customs that just made sense. Tea tasted better when it was heated properly. Harry had joked that she was too english for her own good. 

They stood at the island in silence as Hermione poured her own cup and strained Harry's. Seconds bled into minutes and they sipped until their cups emptied, and then stared at Harry's gone tepid between them. 

Then the thoughts started. What were they even doing? Had she made a mistake, embarking on this path with Ron and Harry? What was she thinking she could accomplish here? Was she doing it all wrong with Rose and Jordan? Should she have chosen only Harry? Ron? What were they going to do without Harry?

The pain sliced hard and fast through her chest and she sobbed as tears began falling. 

An open palm slid across the countertop, and without question, Hermione grasped it tightly, curling into the firm planes of Pansy's fingers that wrapped around her own. 

After another long silence where her breath could finally catch up, Pansy's arrogant tone jibed "Fuck 'im."

Hermione laughed and wiped her other hand across her wet face. 

"Seriously," the taller woman said with a bit more conviction this time, squeezing her fingers gently before letting go and walking back to the fridge. Pulling down Harry's scotch she poured a second's worth in both their cups and lifted one up to Hermione. "Happy Birthday, Harry," she toasted, clinking cups with Hermione, "And fuck you, you bugger."

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Hermione said with a half-smile and tossed back the golden brown liquid. Some caught in her throat, burning, and she coughed. Eyes watery, she looked up to a smirking Pansy. 

"Well?" Hermione asked, eyeing Pansy's mug. 

The woman rolled her eyes and dumped the liquor into Harry's tea. "I can live with a cigarette today. I'd rather not push it."

Hermione felt a stab of guilt--she hadn't even thought about Pansy being pregnant.

Pansy's smile softened as if she could, through her gaze alone, cradle all of Hermione. Is this what Harry had known? "Another?" Pansy asked, mischief glittering her eyes.

"Yes," Hermione quickly decided, shoving the mug forward.

Tipping the bottle, another shot poured into the cup, "To Harry's idiot dancing."

Another bark of laughter and Hermione shot it back, coughing again.

"Merlin, Granger, get it together," Pansy chastised softly. "No wonder Harry needed me."

Scoffing, Hermione assessed Pansy for the first time that night. Deep blue robe, hair hanging loosely around her face, and hip cocked, she looked every bit like a soft erotica book cover. "I don't drink that often and I don't like scotch," she explained.

"Clearly," Pansy smirked, and leaving the bottle on the counter, held her hand out again. "Come," she beckoned, hand out.

Without thinking again, Hermione put her hand back into Pansy's and followed to the living room where she was sat in front of the couch. Settling behind her, Pansy pulled the two large clips from Hermione's hair and uttered a quiet _accio_. 

Pansy shifted and her fingers began pulling the heavy locks up and out, spreading them behind her. "It's softer than it looks," Pansy murmured as her fingertips pressed further and stroked over Hermione's scalp.

Taking a deep breath, she let her chin drop to her chest and ignored the rude comment. A quiet sense softened inside as she relaxed under the strokes. "Draco _is_ a prat."

"You're telling me," Pansy chuffed and threaded her fingers from Hermione's head to the ends. There was a silence, then, "I don't usually smoke, even when I'm not pregnant."

It really wasn't her place, and Hermione didn't feel up to mitigating the pros and cons of what was, in her mind, a singular event. As far as she could tell, Pansy took care of herself and that's all anyone could strive for, sometimes. She shrugged. "Statistics show that high levels of stress during a pregnancy can have negative effects on a baby. Six to one."

The fingers behind her ears paused, "Six to one?"

Opening her eyes, Hermione jostled her head, "Muggle idiom. Means that there's more than one way to do something."

Another long moment where she felt Pansy part her hair and begin braiding it. Murmuring quietly, Hermione remarked, "I should be the one comforting you."

"Why is that?" A hand slipped over the back of Hermione's neck and she groaned.

"Because you're pregnant. Harry would have spoiled you," she breathed into her arm. "You should be spoiled."

Pansy's hand slowly caressed from one side of her neck to the other. "I can take care of myself, Granger."

Sighing deeply, Hermione groaned. "Obviously."

"I don't do pity." The tone sharpened fractionally. 

Hermione grunted and raised her head until it hit the couch. Upside down, Pansy's face was firm. "I can see why Harry was attracted to you. You're a beautiful ingrate."

Even through the sleepy and warm haze and the growing intoxication, Hermione could see Pansy's expression flicker softly and sadly.

"Sod off with the sentimental, Granger." Another moment drew quietly as her hair was twisted and pulled. "I still haven't figured out why he bothered with you."

"My undetectable expansion charms, obviously," Hermione grinned to her folded arms.

"That's... a lot sadder than it is disgusting to know."

Confused at how it could be considered disgusting, she took a moment to get what Pansy had thought she said, and then laughed. "Oh! Hah!" After an amused chuckle, she chastised, "Honestly, Parkinson."

A low hum and then Parkinson replied, "Oh no, she pulled out The Granger." 

Hermione twisted around, "What?"

"Oi!" Parkinson huffed, trying to keep her hands on the hair as she turned her head to look at the dark-haired woman. "Keep still. Morgana, you're useless." The hands in her hair pulled back sternly and the woman smirked.

Disgruntled, Hermione faced forward again. "What's that supposed to mean? The Granger?"

"Oh, honestly," the woman imitated Hermione, "it's leviOsa, not leviosA."

She sniffed at the ridiculous jab. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I lull you into a false sense of security that there wouldn't be any more tears? 
> 
> This chapter was incredibly emotional to write, but I'm still interested to know what you think.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a long chapter. Lots of feelings.

"You can't be serious," Ron had the decency to swallow his food before speaking this time. 

Deja vu shot through her. 

Despite his obvious distaste, Ron shoveled another spoon of vanilla ice cream into his mouth. As Hermione watched him masticate and swallow before talking another bite with his round wide eyes, waiting for her to respond, she considered that of all the things she'd encountered in the magical world, Ron's appetite was quite possibly the most unbelievable thing she'd witnessed. 

Spooning a small bite of chocolate into her mouth, topped with non-pareils, she savored the smoothness and density. "I'm absolutely serious," she responded after swallowing. 

"No," he said flatly, his spoon disappearing into into his flycatcher with another mound of white cream. 

Her spoon hit the edge of her bowl and, disbelieving, she huffed at his audacity, " _Excuse me_?" 

"You said we get one executive veto to use in our relationship. This is mine," Ron quipped, a little too smug. 

Little crimps formed between her eyebrows and Hermione felt her ire rise. "I did not _ask you_ , Ronald Weasley." 

The redhead shrugged and it added fuel to the flames licking up Hermione's spine. 

"You didn't seem to have a problem at the Chudley game last weekend," she pointed out defensively. 

At this, Ron smirked and pointed with his spoon as he countered, "Going to a quidditch game is not the same as sleeping with the enemy, Hermione."

Offended, Hermione glared and fumed a moment, letting her emotions play in her body before she responded. Taking another bite to give herself time, she mulled over the situation in her mind. 

She was attracted, however irrationally, to Parkinson. And she was certain that Parkinson was attracted to her, for whatever reason only the Pansy knew. 

And because Hermione saw Parkinson's presence as something more permanent, she saw no reason not to explore the attraction. Essentially, after Pansy had her child, there was nothing that could undo the fact that all of them would become mutual parents to the baby. One way or another, Pansy would become family. 

Ron took a moment to think, clanking the spoon into the empty bowl and sighing. "Okay," he begins. "Let's run the options." 

God, why did everything have to be quidditch terms? She refrained from rolling her eyes, crossed her arms, and set her jaw. "Okay." 

Leaning back, Ron crossed his arms confidently. "So let's say you and Pansy... Do it. High chances you'll enjoy it, right?" 

She nodded. Hermione had always enjoyed sex; it was rare for her to come across people who couldn't satisfy her wants. She liked to think that was because she communicated what she wanted. Harry told her it was because she had a fantastically developed clitoris.

Only Harry would say something like that in earnest. 

"So you do it and she's going to be cold and rude and that will bother you," he postulates. "I don't want to be tip-toeing around because you're miffed five days out of seven."

"Or not, she might not be a total bint," Hermione countered. The idea of her developing deep feelings for Pansy seemed a bit much. She honestly expected a begrudging respect with occasional sexual encounters to let up pressure.

"You're right," Ron conceded. "That's one option. Or you sleep together, and she starts falling in love with you," he continued. "Or you her." 

At the thought of Pansy falling in love with her, Hermione laughed. 

Ron stared a moment. "Hermione," he said carefully, "you do know that people fall in love with you. Kate? Devon?" he listed off previous partners who had gotten a little more serious a bite quicker than Hermione had wanted. "Marcus, or whatever his name was from the --" he flapped his wrist back and forth.

"Well, they were younger--" 

"Two years isn't a lot --" huffing, Ron rolled his eyes, "And Marcus was actually older--"

"But he was an odd fellow, and besides, that was _before_ children," she wrinkled her nose at the memory of the man who had been obsessed with her to the point of creating a binder of news paper clippings. Ugh.

Ron got back to the point, "People fall in love with you because you're you. What are you going to do if Pansy falls in love with you?" 

"Nothing?" At her partner's frustrated eye roll, she continued, "She's not going to fall in love with me! She thinks we're daft for even being poly. Pansy Parkinson will not tie herself to anyone like me willingly." 

Unimpressed, Ron stared flatly before slowly taking in a breath and letting it out twice as slow. "What about Harry?" A grim line formed at his lips.

Hermione's breath caught. Looking over his shoulder, her brain turned over that non-sequitur yet another time.

"So those are some options." He scooped a spoon of her melting cream and ate it. Nodding at the bowl, clearly accepting the taste, he swallowed and looked back up. "What happens if you fall for her and it ends badly?" 

Face falling, Hermione realized she hadn't considered that. "Well," one shoulder shrugged, "it'll have to be okay because she'll still be the mother of the child. We're adults, Ron." 

"But what if she doesn't want to stick around?" 

Eyes narrowing, Hermione wasn't sure what Ron was trying to get at. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean," he said simply, "what if she decided she doesn't want to hang around anymore and takes the kid with her? What if she decides suddenly that she wants to live in France? Or the States?" 

Sniffing to cover up the distress beginning to creep in, Hermione looked away. 

"Ah! See!" Ron pointed with her spoon. She immediately took it back and ate another bite. 

"See what?" she countered after swallowing. 

"You haven't thought this through and you've your pregnancy-and-baby-goggles on--you're not considering what will happen."

At the thought of Pansy taking the child away, even though it would be completely within her prerogative, her heart clenched. Would they grow up knowing their father's memories? Would she keep them from their siblings? She blinked through the tightness in her chest. 

A large hand enveloped hers on the table and squeezed. "You _care_ , Hermione. Do you think Pansy will care, too?" 

She didn't know. She didn't know if Pansy would care or be upset or what have you. But her gut said _yes_. Why else would the woman have come here with them? It wasn't like she lacked resources.

Ron softened a little. "We're still grieving, Miones, I don't want you to get your hurt all mixed up."

Taking a deep breath, Hermione looked back at Ron and smiled. "Well, I don't think Pansy is looking to curse anyone just yet." 

Rolling his eyes, Ron groaned. "You give her a lot of credit." 

" _She_ took Rose to Tesco's and didn't lose her." 

Laughing, Ron bopped his head back and forth a moment, shrugging it off in the end. "That happened once." 

"I promise to talk to Pansy about it, how about that?" That way she could gauge the woman's receptivity and maturity on the matter. 

Eyebrows hitting his shag, Ron laughed. "I mean, if you think Parkinson can hold an emotionally vulnerable conversation, then okay." 

Chewing on one side of her lip, she considered another thing that had been bothering her. Would it be better to let this conversation stand alone? Screwing up the courage, decided to go for it. 

"I also want to be more involved with her pregnancy," she blurted. 

At this, Ron's face went slack in confusion. "Besides housing and feeding and wanting to..." 

Heaving a sigh, Hermione rolled her eyes. "No. I mean, when I was pregnant, you and Harry spoiled me. Made me feel loved in spite of all my... body changes." 

Ron's brow furrowed at this. "Hermione, you know it isn't your job to be Harry? It isn't your job to be a father to his child?" 

"I know, I know," she insisted. "But she doesn't have a partner--" 

"And that's _her choice_ ," Ron pushed back. 

Pursing her lips together, Hermione accepted that this wasn't going the way she wanted it to go, so she would have to let it go. "Okay," she said. "Okay." 

After a long moment of silence between the two, Ron sighed and leaned forward, hand brushing hair behind her ear. "Your heart is so big," he said, and his smile softened as his eyes watered. "You know Harry didn't stick around because you loved him. Like you love me. He stayed because there isn't anyone like you." 

Merlin, Ron may have gotten better at sex and flirting, but he was still shit at words. Tears coming up anyway, she nodded, message received. 

* * *

"Is it possible for a market to be any less sensible?" Pansy muttered at Hermione's side as she pushed the small trolley. 

Laughing because it was true, Hermione turned the corner and waited for another customer to move along. 

"Truly. Why is the milk in the back? Does no one appreciate that people have things to do?" Despite being the fifth or fourth time she had joined Hermione while shopping, Pansy still marveled at how poorly organized the items were.

Humored by the indignation, Hermione laughed and pressed forward as the person walked away. "Oh? What things have you to do?" 

With a soft sniff of disdain, the tall woman raised her chin. "I run a multinational magazine firm. I have plenty to do." 

Shrugging as she eyed the snack boxes, Hermione considered. "You do seem busy most days. But you do come home most evenings for dinner." Grabbing a couple bags of Walkers, she carefully watched Pansy. It was an unspoken _thing_ that Parkinson had begun keeping a schedule with them, helping Hermione cook some nights, doing dishes on the evenings that Ron cooked. (Ron would not let her help cook, moving stiffly about in cold silence.)

Determined not to make eye contact, the woman perused the bags, and forsaking her pride, grabbed a bag of Worcestershire flavor and put it in the trolley. "It's summer and going on fall, things are already busy at work. Just because your frame of reference for media is Rita Skeeter doesn't mean my work is trivial." 

Touchy subject. "Oh, my apologies. Hadn't commented on your work, but the sentiment is noted." Pansy had pride, after all.

Striding ahead, Hermione watched the woman worry a lip before grabbing a couple shrimp and bananas and dropped them into the cart. When Hermione looked up from the bags she met a glare challenging her to comment.

Taking a deep calming breath, Hermione pressed her lips together. Ron was right. She had pregnancy goggles on. 

"So, the only thing left are the nuggets," Hermione noted and pushed on.

Next to her, Parkinson's eyes watched closely.

"Whatever crud thing you're mulling over, either say or don't," Hermione rolled her eyes as she scanned the frozen section. A frozen pizza might good to have if she has a long day and needs the babysitter (or Parkinson) to feed the kids. She grabbed a box and moved until they came to the nuggets section. 

Parkinson, in a t-shirt and jean shorts, grabbed two bags and set them on the bottom rack. "You're quiet, Granger," she said, grey eyes cutting directly and freezing Hermione in place for a second. 

"I can be quiet," Hermione said, pushing for indifferent.

"This is different quiet. Nervous, almost," the woman's eyes travelled over the wine bottles on the shelves as they made their way to the registers. "Mmph, I miss a good shiraz," she murmured.

After loading the items on the conveyor, Hermione was reaching for her wallet when a hand stopped her own, gripping over her bum. Startled, Hermione twitched back to find Parkinson had her wallet already out. The impassive face lifted fractionally into a smirk and wink before Hermione was pressed forward with a "Do be a dear and load the bags? I cannot imagine being so common."

The familiar clerk snapped her gum and stared at Pansy like she was an arrogant ass, which was accurate, really, and Hermione nodded in a bit of shame when the clerk looked between the two of them. 

"Everything good, ma'am?" the clerk looked at Hermione rather hard until her eyes flicked over to Pansy and then back to her. 

"Yes, I'm good, thank you," Hermione replied. Confused, Hermione's brow creased and her hands froze with the crinkling bag in hand. "How are you?" she asked in turn.

With a loud sigh, Parkinson coldly drawled, "Yes, _Emily,_ Ms. Granger is just fine. As you can see, I haven't taken her to _HIS_ grave and cast an _imperio_ curse." She looked to Hermione, eyes flinting like stone, "Right, darling? You're not under my spell?"

The clerk snapped her teeth together as flustered as she was clearly confused at the words, handing the credit card back to Pansy without looking up.

" _Thank you for all your help_ ," Parkinson smiled at Emily.

"What?" Baffled, Hermione followed the tall figure stalking out of the doors, bags in hand. She turned to Emily, embarrassed. "I am _so sorry_ ," she said quickly. "She's had a long day."

"Parkinson!" she snapped when she got through the double doors. "Help, you bint," she barked. "And where do you think you're going? We took the car--"

Turning on her heel, Pansy strode forward, imposing. "You said this was a muggle shop," her voice was a low threat.

Taken aback, Hermione raised her chin to meet the gaze head on, "And it is, Emily--"

Snarling, Parkinson grabbed the bags from Hermione's right hand and strode toward the car.

Hermione unlocked the boot and they put the bags inside. "Emily was just--"

"I don't want to talk about it," Parkinson bit out.

"Too bad, Parkinson. Now get in the car before I imperio _you_."

"I think I'll take a walk--" the tall woman began turning.

"You most certainly are _not,"_ Hermione's mother tone came out perforce and she closed her door and strode around the bonnet. Jogging quickly to catch up and plant herself in front of Pansy, she grabbed the woman's arm before she could apparate in the parking lot. "This entire neighborhood is under CCTV. You will leave with me just the same as you came. I’ll not have inspectors coming to our door because you decided to just _disappear_ on camera." Voice low and authoritative, Hermione glared.

If a glare could paralyze, Hermione would have been petrified, frozen as Pansy's magic swirled around them, anger pulsing vibrantly. She held her ground, just as furious at Pansy's childish temper. 

Because pride was obviously not going to sway the woman, Hermione let out a careful breath and softened her eyes, "Please," she asked.

Setting her jaw, Parkinson turned back to the car.

Heaving a relieved sigh, shoulders sagging, Hermione followed.

After a tense five minutes, Hermione glanced over. "Harry or Ron usually join me," she tried explaining. "Emily doesn't know anything about--about magic," she hurried to say before the woman interrupted her. "She was probably thinking that something happened to me or them." And the truth was that something _had_ happened. Harry had died and his girlfriend moved in with her. 

Parkinson shifted in her seat and nodded quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm used to...people being rude for specific reasons."

Nodding, Hermione could imagine that happening. "Well, for what it's worth--"

"Don't," Parkinson interrupts, voice steely as her gaze. "I don't want you to hear you apologize because people hate death eaters or sympathizers."

"I was going to say, for what it's worth, Emily usually flirts me and Ron and I think she was thrown off by your calling me _darling_."

Huffing at the side window, Hermione felt the anger begin to ease from the atmosphere in the car. Thank Morgana.

"Good thing I hadn't snogged you in the crisps aisle, the bint would have _died."_ Pansy smirked.

Gut dropping at the thought, Hermione huffed out her own low laugh. And because it was a hilarious thought of Emily fancying Pansy. "Well, maybe next time she'll flirt with you." The statement fell a little flat until, "Just please don't ever bring her back to ours. The next closest place is the co-op and Ron _hates_ their shop--all of the fixtures sit low and he's constantly bumping his head on everything."

A dry laugh erupted from Parkinson and Hermione smiled, pleased to break through a little.

Another five minutes and she pulled around to the back and popped the boot. 

"Pansy," Hermione started carefully, arm stretched above her head, glancing over her shoulder to the woman who began pulling a few bags. "I know that things are tough right now, but..." Hermione swallowed and raised her chin "I wanted to let you know that I find you attractive, and if you're interested--"

"I'm not," Pansy cut her off, face closed off. "I don't need a pity fuck, least of all, from you or your _ginger_."

Rolling her eyes and picking up the other bags, Hermione sighed and spoke up. "If you stopped interrupting, you'd stop sounding like a prat. Ron has no interest in you--" 

Turning around, Pansy looked down at Hermione, narrowing her gaze, "And what makes you think I'd want anything to do with you?"

"You think I don't see the way you look at me--"

Groaning, Parkinson turned away. "This is why associating with red scarves is a hassle. Everything boils down to sex with you people. It's positively uncouth."

Pushing inside, Jordan nearly tackled Pansy about the waist "Tea time! Tea time!"

"Mummy! Daddy Ron let me ride on his broom!" Rose rushed Hermione, eyes bright and wide. 

"Oh, that's great!" Hermione smiled and looked over to Ron, who smiled wide with his daughter.

"She almost took out Dad's shed," Ron rolled his lips together in a knowing smile.

"Rose Weasley-Potter!" Hermione admonished before smiling and whispering "Did you show Daddy how it's done?"

Nodding excitedly, Rose avidly relayed the adventures of their after school time with their grandparents while the two women unpacked and put things away.

A quiet lull settled about them as the girls stopped to breathe. And then Pansy asks, "Rose, you said that your birthday party is coming. This Sunday, no less."

Hermione held her breath as she put the crisps away, doing her best not to show she was listening closely.

"Mm!" Rose hummed through the straw in her flask. Swallowing loudly, she nodded and followed up, tone hopeful, "You're coming, right?" 

Ever reserved, Pansy nodded once, a small smile twitching at her lips, " _Oui_ , _ma puce,_ " she answered. "Tell me, little frog, what do you deserves for your birthday? A castle?"

Stopping all movement and thinking hard, Rose pursed her lips together as her brow came down. Ron chuckled and elbowed Hermione with a whisper next to her ear, "She looks like you when you took your OWLS."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione elbowed him back. "Put these away, oaf," she commanded, shoving the cigarettes and biscuits into his hands. Turning purposefully back to making dinner, Hermione did her best not to pay too much attention to the exchange.

"I want a rainbow," Rose concluded.

"Then a rainbow you shall have," Parkinson promised. Turning to Hermione and Ron, she remarked, a slight glint in her eye, "Won't be hard to collect, I know a goblin who trades in them." 

Rose's eyes lit up at the thought of having a real rainbow that Hermione's heart gripped so tightly it hurt. The green of her eyes brightened just like Harry's, and Hermione cleared her throat and willed her eyes not to burn, even as the sting swelled behind her eyes. Turning to Ron, she buried her face into his chest and hugged him as tight as she could.

A little body collided into their sides and Rose looked up at them, worry in her eyes. "Mum?"

Smiling through the tears, Hermione did her best. "I am really sad and happy, Rooster, so happy my bucket has spilled."

Rose hugged her hard, "It's okay, Mum, I get sad and happy, too. I can hold you." 

"Oh, oh Rose," Hermione cried a little harder and went down to hug her close. Rose's small arms wrapped around her neck and squeezed her hard. She smelled like dirt and child sweat and raspberry shampoo.

"Want to talk about it?" Rose asked, parroting the words Hermione strove to use with them.

Swallowing the rock in her throat, Hermione nodded. "I miss Daddy Harry so much," she whispered to the brown hair under her nose, pressing a kiss to her temple. "And I'm so happy to have you," she nodded and pulled back, face surely red and a mess.

Jordan impacted from behind and the three swayed a little. "Oof!" Hermione gripped both girls to keep balance. "And I'm so happy to have you, too, Bug," she told Jordan and felt the sharp fingers dig at her ribs, trying to get between her and Rose. Taking in a deep breath, Hermione sniffed a little more, wiping the tears at her face before getting more hugs and standing. "Okay, time for me to clean up, right? I'm going to go change and come back down to finish dinner."

She looked up at Ron, whose faces was strained, sad, and red. He gave a small smile and nodded, holding out his hand. She took it and let him pull her close again for a hard hug that stole her breath.

"You're magic, Hermione Granger," he hoarsely spoke into her hair. 

With an exasperated laugh, they pulled apart with sad smiles. He looked over her shoulder at the stove, "So I'll start the chicken, yeah? Throw the noodles in when the water boils?"

Hand caressing his face, Hermione closed her eyes to let her fingers toy a little with his beard, the rough softness prickling the pads of her fingertips. She nodded, and giving forehead kisses to her daughters, went upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, she turned right and grabbed the door handle. Leaning forward she placed her forehead on the door and let a few more tears fall.

"I deserved to know," she whispered to the fleeting scent of Harry before opening the door.

Changing into a pair of flannel pants and a tank, she blew her nose and swept her hair back into a messy bun. She stepped out of the room the same time Pansy stepped out of the bathroom. The unguarded sorrow pierced through Hermione's chest before Parkinson quickly sniffed and raised her chin, face shifting immediately to an arrogant stiffness. She hadn't even noticed where Pansy had gone after the crying.

Unable to help it, Hermione's face fell in sadness and compassion. "Oh," she put her hand to her chest and moved towards her, the instinct to comfort overriding thought. 

A confused expression flickered over Parkinson's face before Hermione hugged her. Hands slowly came up to hug Hermione and she could feel the woman carefully measuring her breath and holding still. The scent of hyacinth lingered in her hair and Hermione squeezed more tightly. The sharp of Pansy's chin rounded up and rested on Hermione's head while a hand rubbed her back and the other tickled the bottom of her bun. Sighing, Hermione let herself feel for the both of them.

Then Parkinson cleared her throat and stepped away, face stiff. 

"What's this?" came Ron's voice behind her.

"Intercourse." Parkinson's face was hard.

"A hug," Hermione answered at the same time.

"Of course," Ron stated simply before heading back down the stairs and tossing behind him, "Dinner's almost ready."

Turning to Parkinson, Hermione began, "Don't let--"

"I'm going," Pansy interrupted. "I'll be out for a day or so. Back in time for Rose's party, I should think," she cleared her throat as she grabbed her messenger bag, strode by Hermione, and down the stairs.

Alone in the hallway, Hermione cast a silencing charm around herself before she groaned loudly at the ceiling. 

After dinner and bedtime, Ron looked over to Hermione and said, "If you're not going out tonight, I'm gonna shove off." His meaning clear, she sighed and thought about what she'd rather: go out or stay home?

"I'll be headed out, then," she said, determining that she hadn't gone for pint in a bit. Back upstairs to put on something decent, she changed quickly and grabbed the pack before apparating in the front room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it was long.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is showing his ass and Hermione strives to keep things together at Rose's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm working on the shape of the story, I haven't done much editing and style. Styling will have to follow when I'm not feeling the push of the plot so keenly.

* * *

Getting everything together for the birthday was not difficult, necessarily. Yes, the cupcakes weren't ready on time, and all of the balloons weren't blown up, and she was still preparing food by the time people (Molly and Arthur) started showing up, but those were all things to be expected. A kid's birthday was always going to be chaotic. It was under subsection C paragraph ii of Murphy's Law that a kid's birthday had to have hiccups. That, as a parent, you have forsaken a life free of mistakes, and not only that, but problems were going to happen and when they did, they happened in front of others. Put short—if it could go wrong, it would.

Hermione had accepted this. She had two daughters and did this twice a year every year for the past four years. Nothing would go right or perfect or to plan. And that was okay because the kids were still having fun. The kids were happy with what they had. They were happy. Period.

No, the issue was that Ron was still being an ass about a hug. _The_ hug? _It was a hug_. It shouldn't have been a big deal, and yet, here she was basically running the whole party alone because her partner stayed out late last night.

Throwing the spell over her shoulder to cut up fresh fruit, she turned to icing the cupcakes. A rhythmic thumping started and when she looked over her shoulder she found the knife pulling itself from the wood; apparently she put too much force into the spell and the sharp blade was digging slightly into the wood of the cutting board with every chop.

Murmuring the counter spell and recasting it, Ginny smiled hesitantly at Hermione. "You look a little... harried. What can I do to help?"

Finishing up the icing on a cupcake, Hermione set the icing bag down and sighed. Closing her eyes, she considered what other plans there were and what needed to be done.

Thankfully, the weather held, though it was overcast, and Hermione hoped it would stay dry long enough for Rose to show a couple of her friends her new broom. She fervently hoped the weather would hold. Then again, casting a shield to keep the girl in and another to keep the water out would also work well.

Looking over to the hallway, she couldn't see, but could picture the last photo portrait of Harry on the wall. Eyes a little sunken, he smiled excitedly at Rose this morning, disappearing to steal props from other frames to cheer for her on her birthday. When he saw Hermione, alone, he stopped everything and sighed, giving a small smile and wave.

Her throat hurt from swallowing so many hard lumps.

"I haven't had a chance to cast wards to make sure the paparazzi stay out, to keep her in our backyard, and a spell to repel rain and other weather." Finishing another cupcake and watching the icing ripple like glitter in the wind, she blew out a breath and looked up to find Ginny carefully watching. "What?"

"Ron mentioned..."

Blood pressure shooting up immediately, Hermione leaned forward and husked, "I don't care what he said. I don't care if you think I cheated on him or killed Pig or I murdered the Pope—" her voice climbed shrilly.

At that, Ginny's face scrunched up before refocusing on her sort of sister in law.

She took another breath to steady herself, "What I am going to say right now is this: it is Rose's birthday party. I am pulling things together because Ron decided to piss off." As Hermione finished icing another cupcake, she found a rhythm, "Do you want to know who else didn't show?"

Hermione laser focused on Ginny's face. The woman blinked, clearly not fool enough to answer.

"Harry," Hermione all but spat. "But Harry, unlike Ron, is dead. What is Ron's excuse for not showing up when it's Rose's first birthday without him?" Eyes stinging with as much frustration as sadness, she dragged a knuckle under her eye and kept tubing the concoction.

Finishing the last cupcake, she angrily glared at the small smudge in the side. Deciding she didn't want to look at it, she grabbed it and shoved a big bite in her mouth. Swallowing, she pointed a chocolate and rainbow glittered finger, "Our girls deserve better, and if I hear so much as a peep, SO HELP EVERYONE HERE TODAY."

Nodding slowly, Ginny seemed to get it, and with that said, Hermione dismissed Ginny from the kitchen with a stern set to her jaw and a huff. Muttering to herself over the fruit, she vowed not to make orphans of her children.

After getting the fruit on a platter and arranging the sandwich board, she looked up to see Ron in the hallway, an unreadable expression on his face.

"We will talk later, but right now, go check on Ginny's wards."

* * *

With the arrival of the rest of the Weasleys and friends, the excitement for Rose was high and chatter filled up the back deck as people and kids moved between the food and the cooler August afternoon weather out back. Hagrid had arrived from Hogwarts later than everyone else, having had to arrange travel with Neville (who now worked in Herbology).

In order to reduce the amount of confusing feelings for Rose, they had given her Harry's present the day before and Ron had taken her to Molly and Arthur's for her first test flight. Ron had barely spoken to Hermione the past two days, and though the tense silence was probably nerve wracking, the fact they hadn't blown was a blessing for everyone given the explosive potential. There was that, at least.

Molly was endearing as always, conscientious of Jordan as well as the birthday girl, she delightfully spoiled all the kids and listened to Victorie's latest tales as a near ten year old.

Charlie and Bill hadn't been able to make it, but Fleur and Victorie had come, much to Hermione's delight. After all the food was prepped, Fleur drifted about with Hermione, complimenting Hermione on the food and decorations (unicorns, dragons, and rainbows) and helped soothe Hermione's nerves, in general. There was a lot of unspoken support between them, ever since Shell Cottage, and Hermione had come to rely on Fleur's company to get her through some of the more hectic Weasley gatherings.

As she watched Fleur laugh delightedly at an under the breath joke about the kids as they scrambled along the yard, Hermione felt the distinct shiver of someone passing forcefully through the wards.

Looking over her shoulder, she caught Ron's gaze, which settled hard as she furrowed her brow.

Excusing herself and walking to the front, she found Pansy at the front door, disheveled and distinctly bothered, large gift bag in hand. Her afternoon dress clung to her body and though clearly miffed, she looked, for want of a better word: glowing.

The silence thickened between them, Pansy taking deep controlled breaths and Hermione's own respiration temporarily arrested.

"I am guessing from your face—and the fact that I was able to get through—that it wasn't you who adjusted the wards?" came the diffident tone.

Oh, Ron was in for it.

Pushing aside her anger at her partner, Hermione stepped forward, "No. May I help?"

The cold look traveled down her body and back up, "No, I simply need a moment."

Watching the woman fan herself, Hermione realized that Pansy was having a hot flash. Either that or pregnancy sweats. Pregnancy hot flashes and pregnancy sweats only differed in temperature, but both were terribly uncomfortable.

Turning back to the kitchen, she forsook pleasantries, "There's cold drinks in the fridge and the gifts are being put by the fireplace." She noticed Molly had come in and was fussing about the fruit tray, chatting with Fleur as the tall veela nodded and pointed out the hidden cheese board on the table. (After Arthur ate an entire spread one year, Molly had Hermione cast disillusionment charms over them. "To avoid another argument, dear," the grandmother explained. It was more likely that Molly was tired of Arthur's lactose intolerance. The man could do damage.)

"Fleur, would you like some wine?" Hermione asked as she pulled an unfinished red from the fridge. Holding out the bottle so the blonde could see it, she waited for a response.

With a discerning eye and scrunch of her nose, Fleur pouted briefly before agreeing.

"Mum," Hermione looked up from pouring a glass as Parkinson came through, "I'd like you to meet Pansy Parkinson. Pansy, this is our Mum, Molly Weasley."

At this, Pansy stopped at the hallway entrance and smiled broadly, red lips gently pressed together before nodding. Reaching out a hand, she stepped forward, expectant.

Molly's expression journeyed through a metamorphosis until she emerged pink cheeked and slightly flustered. "Hello, Pansy," she greeted and took her hand carefully. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Warmly, Pansy nodded, "Likewise, Mrs. Weasley."

Fleur swept from behind Molly, greeting Pansy in French and pulling the woman into a hug before stepping back to assess her. "Oh, look at you," she tutted, fingers dusting over Pansy's cheeks and neck. "Ze sweating, no?" And then scrunched her nose.

Chuckling because she knew the feeling, Hermione sipped the wine and handed the other to Fleur, children dashing inside to the crisps and sodas. Panting, they chattered around the chewing of their mouths. 

Hermione grabbed a coke from the fridge and set it at the end of the island. "Did you have a decent morning?" she asked Parkinson.

An indifferent [hm] drifted over as Pansy set the shimmering bag amongst the other gifts before she strolled back to the kitchen and idly picked up the can.

"Rose will be delighted that you made it," Hermione tried again.

Cracking the soda, the taller woman eyed Hermione before agreeing politely. Fleur led her outside, at which time squeals of joy filtered in as Jordan and Rose caught sight of the tall woman.

Sighing, Hermione looked to Molly and sipped the red. "She had a rough go this week," she explained while silently praying that Ron kept his mouth shut for the rest of the day.

* * *

Before long, they were opening presents and Molly was tutting about happily as she oohed and awed, reflecting Rose's happy bouncing.

Standing in the back of the room, Parkinson held the can of soda and quietly watched, a careful mask firmly in place. When Rose dug into the shimmery white bag, she emerged with box after box. Confused, she looked up at Hermione, who smiled and instructed, "Well, open them!"

To which the child eagerly obeyed. The first box held an iridescent blue stone the size of her fist, the second, an orange stone, and so on until she had seven rainbow colored stones and one shimmery white stone. She looked up to Parkinson, "Ms. Parky," she said (which she got from Ron's coaching), confused as to how things were supposed to work. 

Every adult sat in fraught silence, anxiously waiting.

At this, Parkinson cleared her throat and tentatively made her way over in her low heels and coral blue dress. "Here, ma puce," Hermione heard her whisper in a timid voice as she gingerly kneeled in the middle of the room, surrounded by the Weasleys. Plucking the green stone from Rose's hand, she picked up the white stone, pressed them together, and then handed the white stone to Rose. "Now go to your Grandma," she instructed.

Confused, Rose looked to Molly at the couch and walked over slowly. As the white stone pulled away, a green arc stretched upward between the two. Molly gasped, and Rose, not looking behind herself, didn't see it. Her face crumpled in confusion.

"Look behind you, Rooster," Hermione suggested.

Rose turned and gasped, her eyes lighting up as big and bright as a snitch. She rushed back to Parkinson, who picked up the red, and Rose picked up the purple. They put all three colors with the white stone, Rose ran to Molly, and this time a rainbow of purple, red, and green curved above them.

"A rainbow!" Rose nearly shouted and looked at Hermione and Ron. Hermione smiled back and looked over to find Ron forcing a smile for Rose.

"Na, wouldja lookat that?" Hagrid beamed brightly from his love seat, which he occupied entirely. 

An unfiltered smile bloomed on Pansy's face as Rose elatedly smiled back. Ecstatic, Rose barreled over to Parkinson and nearly knocked her over with the hug. Surprised, Parkinson looked over Rose's shoulder and at Hermione, uncertainty and hope furrowing her brow.

It would appear that in spite of her feigned stiffness Parkinson was getting the hang of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that we all want Pansy and Hermione to finally makeout (trust me--I've written the sex scene twice over already), but I'm honestly trying to make this genuine, which is to say having open or poly lifestyle can be anticlimactic and awkward as people negotiate their wants and needs before getting involved. Adding another person to a dynamic is a clutchy affair until it isn't, stilted until it's not, unknown until it's known because the only way to find out how it works is to experience the mistakes and missteps often enough to learn and grow through them.


	9. Chapter 9

Parkinson was all but running down the stairs when Hermione cornered her at the bottom, effectively blocking the front room. Pulling up short, Parkinson huffed, her face clearly showing her irritation at Hermione's intrusion."

I'm nearly late—" the taller woman droned, eyes sharp.

"That's nice," Hermione countered, unfazed. "We need to talk."

Shifting from one foot to the next, Parkinson sucked in her cheeks and raised an eyebrow. "No, I need to get to work. Move."

Puffing up, Hermione glared back. "Either you sit down at seven tonight or you figure out somewhere else to sleep, Parkinson. Because between you and the oaf, I am fit to be tied."

Simpering, Pansy retorted, "That's more your kink than mine, Granger."

Unwavering, Hermione set her jaw. "Seven o'clock tonight or you can force yourself onto someone else's doorstep."

At the threat, Parkinson straightened authoritatively. "I have a right to be here."

"And you're welcome here," Hermione quickly retorted, "But I am done playing nice. So either you sit down and we talk things out maturely tonight, or you sod off."

The air around Parkinson shifted, and Hermione could all but taste the acrid condensation of magic before apparating. Rolling her eyes, Pansy huffed and pushed past Hermione to the front room with a condescending "If I must," before cracking out of the room.

* * *

"It's pub night with the team," Ron tried after bringing the girls back from his mother's.

"Every night will be pub night if you aren't back by seven tonight," Hermione threatened angrily, not caring that the girls were unpacking from their day at the kitchen table.

With an indignant face, Ron snapped, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Both hands on her hips and bending forward, Hermione refrained from growling, "It means that we're going to iron things out tonight or you and Parkinson are getting the boot."

"What!" Ron raised his voice and looked down at the kids briefly before standing up and stepping closer to lean over Hermione. 

"Either show up at seven or I'm changing the floo wards."

"You can't do that—"

"I can and I will, Ronald Weasley. I will take the girls to Mum's every morning and you can drop them off for all I care. You can have them every other weekend and sleep somewhere else seven nights a week." She heaved a breath in and glared back, unafraid of his height, "Or you can stop being a prat and show up at seven tonight to work things out like the man I love."

Nearly snarling, she watched as the conflict of emotions and desires moved across his face.

After a long five seconds of beady-eye glaring, Ron sighed and leaned back. "Fine," he nearly spat before turning to walk out. 

As he hit the hallway, Hermione pulled her favorite prat card and asked "Are you going to kiss the girls before you head out?" Even if they were fighting, the girls still desrved to know their parents loved them unconditionally.

Stopping immediately, Ron took a deep breath and exhaled loudly before turning around to give each of the kids a goodbye kiss and hug.

* * *

"Oh, zis will be so much fun!" Fleur enthused as she walked Hermione back to the fireplace. "We will 'ave s'mores and chase the last of ze fireflies, no?" she said to the girls. Hermione did not know why the woman loved s'mores, but she did. 

The green and brown eyes lit up hopefully and the siblings shared a hopeful happy look with each other.

Exhaling in relief, Hermione gratefully smiled at her sister in arms. "You are a lifesaver, Fleur, thank you."

With an airy wave, Fleur smiled coyly and encouraged, "Do go on, ma chouchouette."

Laughing and putting her head on the blonde's shoulder, she obliged, "You are the best, most amazing woman I know."

Laughing deeply, Fleur's eyes danced and she brought Hermione in for a hug. "I will keep zem only tonight?"

"That's all I need, yes," Hermione sighed with a nod of affirmation.

"And eef I want to keep them for another night?" the blonde inquired.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, honestly—" Hermione started.

Delicate fingers cradled her cheek and pulled Hermione's face towards her own, "Take your time," she commanded with a gentle smile. "'Arry ees gone and you are lost," she added.

A familiar thin thumb brushed over her cheek and her heart contracted. Swallowing hard, Hermione wasn't sure how to begin to explain or figure out whatever it was that ran between them. It wasn't lust or romance for Fleur. It was something else much quieter, much stronger. A resonance of a heartbeat, perhaps, the magical rhythm of her life-force that drummed itself into Hermione when she hadn't wanted to be alive. An imperceptible chord that hummed in synchrony no matter how long it had been since it was last plucked. 

Smiling brokenly, Hermione sniffed, "Yes, ma'am," she conceded.

Smiling back, Fleur kissed her cheeks and sent her away with a small bag of madeleines.

* * *

Fleur had been onto something when she insisted she keep the girls for the weekend. Between Ron's bull-headed prattling and Parkinson's patronizing ice glares, it was a miracle anyone had gone to bed unscathed.

Not for wanting, though, as Ron had more than his fair share to postulate about Parkinson's intentions and the former slytherin had more than her fair share goading the fool.

After an argumentative first ten minutes, Hermione had silenced both of them to lay out exactly what her expectations would be for everyone—that Ron understand that he was not living in the house and would not be dictating anyone's comings and goings. And that Parkinson would have to own up to what it was that brought her to Godric's Hollow.

The ensuing silence held for minutes until Hermione, under threat of kicking Ron out of the bedroom, pressured Ron to apologize for his atrocious behavior on Rose's birthday.

After that, she turned to Parkinson, who colder than ever, sat straight-backed on the edge of the couch, lips pursed resolutely together.

After another long wait, Parkinson cleared her throat and began. "Harry showed up last year in a right mess, shaking and sweating. He mentioned that he'd gone to a muggle doctor for treatment on his liver and that it didn't look good."

"You expect us to believe he told you and not us?" Ron interrupted angrily.

"Yes," she asserted forcefully with a glare before turning her eyes back to the coffee table, staring through the wooden top as she took another moment to gather her thoughts. 

Hermione glared at Ron and although he rolled his eyes, he kept silent.

"He wanted more time." She waved one hand, then the other as she spoke. "More time with the girls, more time...with you two." Listless, her hands fell. "And I didn't know what to do except listen most nights. He told me a lot of stories about you," Parkinson smiled in that way she could smile through a frown. "And he wanted me to visit because..." she inhaled deeply and looked upward, clearly trying to hold back tears, "because he was sentimental. He thought we would get along." At that, she rolled her eyes and huffed without humor. "Clearly, he was mental," she stated.

At that, Ron snorted. "He was mental," he nodded, agreeing.

Clearing her throat, Parkinson continued, "Anyways, there was a night where he came back from—" she waved a hand outward, "from a mission, and we..." she cleared her throat again and looked down before rolling her eyes at herself, "well, we had sex. And it was all normal until he started shaking, and I—I was so scared I threw clothes on and apparated him to Mungo's. And he—" Parkinson stopped, mouth parted as if speaking voiceless words. "But he got mad and told me to take him home—" at this, Parkinson's tears were falling silently down her face, but she continued, "and he said that if he was going to die, he wanted to do it here, and not in some 'damn recycled hospital bed'." Nose pink and sniffling, Parkinson pushed on, "So I brought him here," another hand waved to the side, "And he couldn't get back up so we sat in the front. I sent a patronus to you," she looked up to Hermione briefly before raising her chin and looking off to the kitchen.

The memory of a unicorn flying through the ministry office door and stamping impatiently about the room flitted through her mind.

"He told me to stay, that he wanted me here, but I—" she stopped and looked away, "I didn't know how—"

The memory of apparating into the front room and running around the house before seeking Harry and finding him all but sat against the front door, weak and smiling made more sense now. The memory of a loud crack of disapparating hadn't been a glitch in her mind.

"I couldn't stay, but I couldn't bring myself to leave him, so I came back," she explained.

The memory became clearer then, of Pansy arriving at the end of the walk, tears already falling. Harry's expression at seeing her, then the relief when Hermione rounded Ron up from the DMLE office and apparated home.

Struggling with his last words, he gave up and smiled through the pain, surrounded by the people he loved most intimately.

Hermione sat rigid, reliving the grief. 

"I hadn't thought about the fact we had sex until after his funeral," Parkinson's quiet words interrupted her thoughts. "I didn't even think about—about everything until a month later when I woke up sick." Parkinson wiped a cheek with her knuckles and laughed hollowly, "I thought I was sick with grief the day before the interment." Another laugh. "But then I was sick the next three days and I knew it wasn't grief anymore."

After that, the three sat wordlessly, lost in their own thoughts and grief.

"Well shit," Ron exhaled and got up to pace to the kitchen. 

* * *

Looking around the house in the dim lights, drinking a cup with Parkinson and Ron at the island, she realized she needed to be gone. After that, Hermione gathered a few things and tucked them into her messenger bag. With a short explanation that Fleur had the kids through Sunday, Hermione apparated to a sandy hill. 

Looking up at the dark grey sky for a moment, she inhaled the salty air deeply before casting her eyes around. Walking a bit further down, she found the etched stone and sat down next to it. She hadn't visited in a while. The dune grass rustling and the ocean's fingers pressing and grasping at the shore in cold rolling waves filtered through her, echoing as Hermione closed her eyes. 

So much had changed no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she tried. It hurt. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parkinson begins to thaw.

Things were tense for a couple of weeks with Parkinson's confession of sorts and Ron's grudging acceptance that Parkinson was, for the foreseeable future, staying at Godric's Hollow.

Doing her best to respect Parkinson's boundaries, Hermione kept busy with Rose and Jordan as well as staying on top of their summer schedules and family gatherings. It was fairly simple, but the loss of Harry pulled heavily on her. Everywhere she went, murmurs of sympathy, condolences from acquaintances, anecdotes of “I remember you and Harry would—” and “It’s so odd to see you without Harry,” sliced invisibly and she smiled through most of the well-meaning conversations.

Walking through the pub, Hermione took a deep breath and got a booth along the side wall, rubbing her shoulder absently to alleviate some tingling. The requested Guinness appeared and she sipped the heavy brew as she took in the atmosphere. Not a dive bar, like Ron preferred, Caellen’s Cauldron kept cleaner floors and better pints. After a productive and straining second week, Hermione arranged for Ron to have the girls a couple nights so she could blow off some steam and get out of the house some. Waiting for the basket of fish and chips, she took in a deep breath and let her thoughts drift.

What was Pansy doing with them? Yes, she had opened up some that night, but she still hadn’t volunteered why she had chosen to have the baby, why she stayed. Not to mention the hot and cold stares that had become part of their daily routines.

Jordan had taken to having afternoon tea with Parkinson almost once a week, and Rose joined in as the woman guided Jordan through the intricacies of the social ritual, substituting the usual Earl Grey with cream teas and herbals. “Mummy,” Jordan said one Saturday afternoon, plastic teacup raised, “come have tea!”

In the middle of preparing the start of curry, Hermione had frozen, “I don’t think so, Bug,” she politely declined.

“But you simply must join us, Ms. Granger,” Parkinson purred, eyes glittering as she appraised her head to toe.

“Yeah, Mum!” Rose encouraged.

“I am afraid that I am not much for afternoon tea,” she explained, self-conscious of the fact that she did not know much about it and didn’t want to have her ignorance lorded over her by the dark-haired woman who clearly was in her element.

“Oh, don’t be so common, Hermione,” Parkinson challenged. “Come join us, no one here is going to bite.” She said with a red-lipped and toothy smile, “Show me some of that gryffindor spirit.”

Checking the simmering sauce and sliding the carrots and potatoes into the pan, she waved her wand and set a timer. “You have me for ten minutes,” she gave in with a smile to Jordan.

The spelled low table was covered with lace doilies, small dishes of raspberry and orange marmalade next to a bowl of scones. Jordan had taken to wearing her favorite teal dress with white polka dots, accessorized with a unicorn horn transfigured by Parkinson upon request. (“I want to be a unicorn princess!” she had insisted.) Rose wore a rainbow tiara and had brought down the rainbow stones to cast a rainbow over their table.

When Hermione raised her pinkie, Rose chimed up, pointing, “Mummy, no pinkie pokes!”

Looking over to Parkinson, Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“Mm,” the woman hummed delicately as she set the teacup back to her saucer, “it is improper to raise one’s pinkie with afternoon tea.”

“Oh, well then,” Hermione mocked seriousness, “I will endeavor to keep the rebel down.”

"That will be the day," Pansy murmured.

It had been quite the affair and Hermione would be a liar if she said she hadn’t enjoyed the lesson on afternoon tea as much as she found Parkinson’s conversation engaging.

It was frustrating that the woman refused to acknowledge the attraction even as she sought proximity nearly every evening, often perching at the stool next to the table where Hermione had spread out reports or taking the couch as Hermione settled into the armchair with a book.

And the proud lift of the pointed chin, the dark bob hanging below it, brushing over the exposed shoulders of Parkinson’s blouses really got to Hermione some days, like the woman _knew_ that she was rankling Hermione’s last nerve.

But if Parkinson said she didn’t want to do anything to do with Hermione, well then fine, Hermione would respect that.

Which brought her to this particular moment at a pub, waiting for her date, and finding space to just breathe.

Halfway through her Guinness, Hermione spotted a dark-haired bob near the entrance. “What the…?”

A man shuffled to the side and there was Pansy Parkinson, eyes searching until they land on Hermione, then, guarded and worried, hurrying over in brisk strides.

“Where have you been?” Parkinson demanded. “Where are the girls?”

“What? What do you mean?” Hermione asked, suddenly afraid that something had happened.

“You never came home, who has Rose and Jordan?” Parkinson haughtily pushed.

Realizing that Parkinson hadn’t been clued in, Hermione heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. “The girls are fine. They’re with Ron for the next couple nights.”

Sitting down, Parkinson harrumphed and glared. She could see the fear ooze out of her before she glanced up and a fire flashed through her eyes. “You can’t just disappear at random, Granger. I thought something had happened.”

Though curious, Hermione’s planned date would be arriving soon and she would rather not ruin the mood with Parkinson’s brand of charm. 

She leaned forward and endeavored to set the woman aright. “Yes, I can. And if you hadn’t been avoiding me the last few days, I would have informed you that I was making plans for tonight and tomorrow and that the girls were going to be with Ron.” She sipped the Guinness. “But you weren’t home and there wasn’t an emergency, so I—”

Leaning forward, face pinched, “The house was empty, Granger. I was worried something had happened.”

Laughing again, Hermione sat back, “Worried, were you?” She wasn’t letting it show, but the idea that Parkinson had tracked her down was touching.

“You could have sent an owl,” Parkinson glowered. “It wouldn’t have taken but a moment.”

“Indeed, but I didn’t have time to wrangle Pig this morning, and as it wasn’t an emergency—”

“You could have told me you would be going out. You could have sent an owl from your office, left a parchment on the counter—something, anything.”

At Parkinson’s second interruption, Hermione sat back, fingers idling with the glass. “Yes, but I didn’t. And now you know the girls are safe, that I am fine, and you can rest easy we are all safe and sound.”

At Hermione’s stiff tone, Parkinson narrowed her eyes before seeming to concede the point silently. “Well then.” Heaving a sigh, she flopped back against the booth and looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. “What’s all this about?” A hand waved over the table.

“It’s about me having my own space, Parkinson. So do be kind and buzz off,” Hermione shooed. Looking at her watch, she prayed Parkinson would oblige.

Wrinkling her nose, Parkinson looked confused until her eyes traced down Hermione’s chest and a mischievous glint dawned in her eyes. “Oh, is this a date?” Under the lighting and with the delighted expression, Parkinson all but glowed in her blouse and skirt ensemble. A bulky black bangle clattered on the tabletop as a hand slapped the wood. “Granger has a date? With who?”

“Really, Pansy,” Hermione started, feeling the edge of her anxiety come back, and glanced at the door where the short quidditch player entered. “Please just go,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you we were going to be out tonight, I am, but I sincerely would appreciate time to myself.”

Conniving eyes narrowed and the dread solidified in her gut as Alicia made her way to the table, eyes moving between Hermione and Parkinson. “Oh, hello,” she greeted warily before turning to Hermione, “Hello love.” Her hazel eyes warmed on Hermione’s face before drifting down to take in the conservative dress Hermione had chosen.

Smiling under the knowing look, Hermione felt a flush of excitement and cleared her throat. “Alicia, you know Pansy. Pansy,” she looked directly at Parkinson eyes flashing, “this is my date for the evening, Alicia.”

“Delighted,” Parkinson’s signature smirk spread across her face as she held out her hand.

Embarrassment climbed up from Hermione’s gut and setting her jaw, she stared at Parkinson as if she could apparate her with a look. Alicia politely took Pansy’s hand and smiled genially. “Indeed,” the darker-skinned woman agreed easily, still standing next to the booth.

Partially mortified that Parkinson hadn’t left and partially relieved at Alicia’s easy-going nature, Hermione went for the most direct route. “Pansy, I believe we’re done with our chat. If you would be so kind as to leave—”

Eyes turning from their assessment of Alicia, Pansy’s focus landed hotly on Hermione. “Ah yes, forgive me,” she said, eyes slipping down to Hermione’s mouth, “Where are my manners? You ladies enjoy your evening.”

As the taller woman rose and stepped away, Hermione waited with bated breath for her to turn around and pull one last stunt. When that didn’t happen, Alicia took the seat with a laugh and Hermione heaved a relieved sigh. “Honestly, that woman,” Hermione rolled her eyes with a huff before laughing along with Alicia.

“How on earth do you manage to cohabitate with Pansy Parkinson?” Alicia grinned.

With another sigh, Hermione deadpanned. “I have no idea, Alicia.”

The two laughed again and Hermione felt the stress begin to ease.

* * *

Stumbling through the front door, Hermione kept one hand latched to Alicia and pressed the other to the athlete’s giggling lips, “Shhhh!” The last thing Hermione wanted was for Parkinson to emerge and scare off her plans for the night.

Alicia pushed the door shut and then leaned back on it, pulling her close to slowly kiss Hermione’s lips. Hermione liked Alicia’s height—she was only an inch or so taller—and their bodies slotted comfortably together despite her lack of athleticism. Humming against the plush feel of Alicia’s mouth, Hermione nipped at her chin, thrilled at the dense cottony feeling in her brain. Pulling away to kiss her more forcefully, she dragged her tongue across her teeth before pressing deeper and sucking hard. “More, I want more,” she husked wetly against her mouth before pulling away to drag the player up the stairs.

Quickly making their way to her room, Hermione let Alicia pin her to the door and hitch up her dress, then her leg, “Mm, Miones, I’ve been thinking of your thighs all week,” she murmured to Hermione’s neck as her fingers worked the flesh of her thighs. The tawny-brown skin of Alicia’s neck and shoulders flushed under Hermione’s vigorous bites and she smiled against the heavy and thick hair pulled into a French braid. Satisfied at the marks, Hermione moaned when a firm hand slid up a thigh and stroked across her lace knickers. Alicia stopped at the contact and pulled back, eyes hard and lustful. “Are these the ones I think they are?” her throaty accent deepened and Hermione gasped as a finger firmly circled over the wet flimsy material. She adored the accent, as ridiculous as she felt about it.

With a roguish grin, Hermione lifted her chin and teased, “Only one way to find out.”

Alicia groaned and slammed Hermione back against the door, pinning her in place as she devoured Hermione’s lips. Coming up for air, she locked eyes with Hermione, “Hold on, I need to,” she gestured with her chin towards the hallway and Hermione divined that she needed to use the bathroom.

Groaning pitifully, Hermione slackened and let the woman go, “Hurry back,” she commanded through hooded eyes and strolled to the bed casting an _accio_ to gather the things she wanted.

* * *

Sighing, Hermione rolled her head back for a long stretch as she walked into the kitchen with the bags from the market, humming to herself as she set the canvas totes on the island.

“Spinnet snores.”

Startled, Hermione yelped and whirled around, eyes wide. “Dammit, Pansy,” she breathed with a glare.

Parkinson strolled over and settled on to a stool, smirk in place. “Didn’t know you were a jersey chaser, Granger. Never pegged you as that shallow.”

Snorting at the jab, Hermione set the veggies into the fridge and pulled out a bag of kettle corn. “Aren’t you wanted somewhere, Parkinson? Don’t you have money to spend somewhere?”

With a droll look, Parkinson sighed and perched her chin on a palm. “Alas, I am unwanted, Granger. No one will have me, and here I suffer, listening to your drunken scrabblings. Honestly, is it beyond you to cast a silencing charm? Is your wand as broken as your decency?”

Turning around from the pantry and propping a hip on the island, Hermione grinned as she opened the bag of fresh kettle corn, popping a couple kernels into her mouth. “Mm, you know, Alicia’s snoring isn’t so bad,” she returned. She stretched an arm over her head and groaned, pleased at the sore spots along her shoulders and hips.

“She snored until noon and had tea for an hour,” Parkinson pointed out, clearly vexed. “Can someone get oxygen to her brain when snoring that loudly? Surely it’s a sign of head trauma.” Parkinson’s round eyes rolled obnoxiously as she picked up a cup and sipped.

Laughing, Hermione considered. “Well, she did get a concussion last season from a bludger to the face.”

Deadpan, Parkinson blinked, “Clearly, they weren’t able to fix her face or her brain.”

“I love Alicia’s face and brain,” Hermione countered and took another bite of popcorn, enjoying herself.

Snorting, Parkinson rolled her eyes, “Obviousy, we’ve established you’re a jersey chaser.”

“I’m not a jersey chaser,” Hermione argued, leaning forward, settling onto her elbows on the island.

“Ronald, Harold, Alicia-old,” Pansy ticked a finger up for each, “And the sister Weasley, too, I’d venture.”

“Ouch,” Hermione feigned wounding and rustled the bag for another bite, “But not true. I haven’t slept with Ginny.”

Laughing, Parkinson’s eyes slitted, “She turn you down, Granger?”

Grunting and looking over Parkinson’s shoulder to the living room, Hermione nodded. “More or less. I would climb her like a tree, though,” she stated, eyes dreamily gazing into her imagination. “I imagine Ron being her brother has something to do with it.”

Parkinson laughed, high and unreserved. “Granger, you’re a trollop,” her tone amused.

Taking another bite, she chewed slowly and pushed out her lower lip in thought. “I’ve always been partial to ‘harlot,’ but ‘trollop’ is accurate, too,” she conceded with a smile.

The air between them thickened and their grins settled into a general mirth, eyes watching each other closely.

“Who’d have thought you so wanton,” Parkinson prodded. “Is there any quidditch player you haven’t shagged?”

“Oh, hush,” Hermione slapped the hand not holding tea. “I would never shag anyone on Chudley.”

Another bark of laughter from Pansy split Hermione’s face into a wide grin and she laughed at herself. “I do have some standards, Parkinson.”

“Clearly,” Parkinson rolled her eyes and sipped at the tea, then reached for the popcorn.

“Hey!” Hermione slapped her hand again, eyes scowling, “Not for you.”

Gasping, Parkinson’s eyes could have frozen a Russian dillweed as she retorted, “I had to listen to you and Spinnet stumbling around for _hours_ , Granger.”

Yanking the bag back towards herself, caging it between her elbows and slowly popping another piece in her maw, Hermione waggled her eyebrows. “Oh yeah?” She smiled, excited that Parkinson hadn’t let it go because she was ready for this.

“Yeah,” Pansy sneered, “And I don’t know why you can’t seem to find the decency to be a decent flatmate.” She reached for the bag, pulling a mean face.

Drawing back away and swatting at the hand again, Hermione winked at Pansy flirtatiously. “You like listening, Parky? Can’t get the real thing, have to resort to listening little ol’ me?”

Huffing in disdain, Parkinson instantly pulled away and straightened her spine. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger.”

Taking another bite, Hermione slowly chewed, eyeing Parkinson, reveling in having one up on the usually aloof woman. “Yeah? Is that why you didn’t cast your own silencing charm?” She leaned forward again and arched an eyebrow, “If you want, I could always give you a demonstration.”

Hermione had never seen Parkinson blush before and it made her weekend to see the creep of pink make its way up her neck and blossom on her cheeks.

“Here,” Hermione tossed the bag of popcorn to Parkinson. “It’s the least I can do,” she smirked.

“Fuck you, Granger,” Parkinson icily retorted.

Turning, Hermione smiled winningly before she laughed her way to the back for a smoke. “You know where to find me,” she drawled over her shoulder before sliding the glass closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know I know!!!--they didn't make out! 
> 
> So... There are still a lot of topics to cover: the Linea alba, the muggle library, pregnancy randy-ness, and nesting.  
> Pregnancy starts getting "weird" for most women by the 2nd trimester (according to my wife and sisters who have graciously provided me with their first hand experiences), so we'll be seeing much more interaction coming about.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to unravel as Hermione tries to push through the days.

Parkinson was wincing again as she walked to the fridge and pulled out another coke. She was in her fourth month, now, and the small bump barely noticeable. Her statuesque frame that was usually elegant now had a little baby bump and her breasts had gotten bigger too, adding a smidge of softness to the woman’s usual hard edges. The heartburn she had developed in the last week had made an irascible beast of her in the mornings, leaving her cranky, and a bit pitiful, in the evenings. Jordan was the only one spared in her short-tempered snapping, and when the two were out back, “Parky” left small transfigured treasures for the younger girl to find in the yard as her older sister flew about on her broom.

Hermione wanted to shower her with attention and little gifts, let her know she wasn’t alone in the matter, and Ron warned her to keep to her own business. As a middle ground, when she made small trips to the market on her own, or on the way from work, she would pick up “extra” supplies—bath potions, bananas and shrimps, a foot roller—and secret them away, conveniently stumbling upon them a few days later, head in the hallway closet, “Oh, you mentioned feeling foul. Would you be interested in this lavender potion?”

Quite pleased to be pulling the small acts of kindness over on the woman, Hermione was proud Parkinson had been receptive to the indirect method of help she developed.

Pulling Walker’s from the pantry, Parkinson made her way to the island while Hermione reviewed the upcoming paperwork for the kids’ coming school year. Jordan was going to Reception, and she wanted to make sure that she had all the information together before they started. The bag crinkled and she heard the woman take a bite.

A moment later, Pansy cursed, clipped the bag, and tossed it back in the pantry. Grabbing a cup, she poured an exorbitant amount of honey into it and stomped to the living room. The heartburn was acting up, apparently.

Eyeing the entrance forms and compiling the records to submit, Hermione made a quick folio and set it off to the side before grabbing her own cup. Settling on the loveseat since Parkinson had taken the armchair, she picked up her poetry book from the end table and opened to the bookmark.

“Isn’t it Ron’s night?” the irritated woman asked.

“Normally, but he’s a work thing,” Hermione replied, keeping to the page.

“Didn’t he have a work thing last night?”

“He did,” Hermione replied.

A pause, then, “What if he’s lying?”

With a small sigh, Hermione tucked a finger into the pages. “Why ever would he lie?”

Huffing, Parkinson flipped a hand into the air, “I don’t know, where he’s going?”

“Why would he need to lie about where he’s going?” thoroughly confused, Hermione looked to Pansy for answers.

Rolling her eyes, Parkinson eyed the fireplace. “What if it isn’t a work thing? What if he is using the time to see someone else?”

Ah, the point emerged. Hermione took a deep breath and sipped her tea. “He could be lying, I suppose.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Parkinson’s eyes cut sharply back to Hermione, the intensity startling her.

“Well, Ron does see other people, and if he used work as an excuse to not be here with his daughters and me, then… I guess that says more about Ron than anything I could say,” she reasoned.

“But you’re his family,” Parkinson retorted hotly. “He’s supposed to be here for his family.”

Slipping the bookmark back into place, Hermione set the book to the side and turned to face Parkinson. One knee up, the other to the side, she wore knickers and a tank under her satin dressing gown, hair let down in soft waves. Without makeup and pregnant, she looked so beautiful it made Hermione smile, imagining what Harry would think of the sight. Judging from the “glow,” Parkinson was having another hot flash on top of the testiness.

“You think Ron is a bad partner,” Hermione stated flatly, trying to get to the point.

“Well, yes,” the woman agreed quickly.

“And that’s okay to think,” Hermione nodded with a smile.

A flash of ire crossed Parkinson’s face before she stuttered. “No, it’s not okay!” she snapped. “He should be here, helping you! Helping take care of the girls, make dinner most nights, do the paperwork for their school—” She threw a hand towards the fireplace, “Not off drinking or flouncing around with some floozy!”

Watching Parkinson carefully, Hermione tried to ascertain whether to keep talking. “Is there anything I could say that would change your mind?” she asked.

Taken aback, Parkinson stopped and blinked before looking away. “Not likely,” she huffed after a moment.

Laughing, Hermione shrugged off the prickly stare. “Would you like a foot rub?” she offered softly.

Grouchily, Parkinson nodded, and Hermione rounded up the usual items before setting down on the floor.

“Last time I had forgotten the sugar scrub,” she mentioned, and held the jar up for her to sniff. There was a tentative snort and grunt of approval. Carefully filling the plastic bin and adding the oils Parkinson selected, Hermione had her _scourgify_ her feet before setting to work.

Quietly, Hermione slathered on the scrub and worked it over the arches and toes until the scent of peppermint permeated warmly through the room. Satisfied that the feet were scrubbed, she rinsed them and vanished the water, then refilled the basin again, setting Pansy’s feet into the fresh water to soak.

Wiping her hands on the towel, Hermione cast for the timer and her book, leaning back against the overstuffed armchair, and opened the pages. She hadn’t really been reading the book so much as rereading certain lines, letting the echo of the words shape the hollows of places she could only see with closed eyes. Refractions of broken thoughts that kaleidoscoped into knives of colors and designs cut sharply into her heart and ribs, their bright shards patterned like stained glass exploding through her bones, leaving her exposed and raw and alive. Painfully alive. And sometimes, painfully aware.

“What are you reading?” came the question from above.

She felt the plait of her braid picked up, then apart and closed her eyes. “It’s a collection,” she answered. “But currently I’ve been reading Adrienne Rich and Audre Lorde. Something has trapped me, for the moment, and until I can puzzle myself out, I am stuck on the lines.” She hadn’t meant to say anything beyond the authors, and now that the words were out, she blushed, embarrassed to have said as much.

“It’s poetry, right?” Parkinson murmured, pulling the strands up from Hermione’s head carefully.

“Mm,” Hermione nods.

“What’s the poem?” Parkinson threaded both palms into her hair and gently pulled. “If you don’t mind sharing, of course,” she added quickly.

“There are a few, but tonight it’s _Phantasia for Elvira Shatayev_.”

There was a pause and a couple falls twisted carefully, then “Would you read me something?”

Hermione loved this book. The images here were beautiful, ugly, hurt, empowered; it was a nakedness she had never shared with another person, not a guilty pleasure so much as a secreted mirror. She read the words and in them saw herself. They were beautiful and sad words. Hopeful and dreaming and angry.

“I’ll see if I can find something you might like,” she hedged. “Is there any style poetry you enjoy?”

With a dry laugh, Parkinson cleared her throat and leaned down, “You remember I’m queer, right?” She leaned back and asked, “Does it have any Virginia Woolf? Any Dickerson?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Hermione laughs. “It’s mostly American poets.”

“American? Granger, you really ought to aim higher.”

“It’s Dickinson, not Dickerson. Who is also American.”

“That’s what I said, Dickinson,” Parkinson snorted.

“I don’t think I’ll read to you, at all, then,” Hermione decided with a voiceless laugh, closing the book and her eyes.

Another snort behind her and Pansy gently tugged the new plait on the side of her head, “Don’t be a bint.”

“I don’t talk about these poems with anyone,” Hermione replied. “They aren’t paltry pastorals and pedantic prats.”

“You mean there’s no Wordsworth in there?”

Hermione laughed out loud, amused at the juxtaposition. “No, there’s not.”

“Then do read me something, my soul must needs something not reflected in the resounding cataracts of a stone so great that God reckoned.”

With a deep breath and roll of her eyes, Hermione plucked up a spot of courage and opened the book.

Sensing the tension, Parkinson proffered, “I promise I won’t make fun of it.”

“That’s partly what I’m afraid of,” Hermione confessed without thinking.

“I never pegged you a coward,” Pansy snorted.

“You’ve never pegged me, at all,” the rejoinder came perforce.

Another tug, then, “Come on, then. Elucidate a darkened soul.”

Flipping through, Hermione searched to find something not intense, not personal, not political. Flipping through, she couldn’t decide, couldn’t read fast enough. She stopped, bottom right, bold title **Artemis** catching her eye. Forging ahead, she began.

_Let’s not have tea. White wine  
eases the mind along  
the slopes  
of the faithful body, helps  
  
any memory once engraved  
on the twin  
chromosome ribbons, emerge, tentative  
from the archaeology of an excised past.  
  
I am a woman  
who understands  
the necessity of an impulse whose goal or origin  
still lies behind me. I keep the goat  
  
for more  
than pastoral reasons. I work  
in silver tongue-like forms  
that curve round a throat  
  
an armpit, the upper  
thigh, whose significance stirs in me  
like a curviform alphabet  
that defies  
  
decoding, appears  
to consist of vowels, beginning with O, the O-  
mega, horseshoe, the cave of sound.  
What tiny fragments  
  
survive, mangled into our language.  
I am a woman committed to  
a politics  
of transliteration, the methodology  
  
of a mind  
stunned at the suddenly  
possible shifts of meaning—for which  
like amnesiacs  
  
in a ward on fire, we must  
find words  
or burn._

There was a long pause where neither spoke. Self-consciously, “That’s a shorter poem,” she explained.

“You read me a feminist poem about missing language and meaning because it was a shorter than the other works?” Parkinson asked, humor evident in her voice.

“You promised not to laugh,” Hermione snipped as the twist was finger-combed free, leaving the bushy mass loose about her shoulders and face.

“I promised not to make fun of it, I didn’t promise not to laugh,” Parkinson retorted. “And I haven’t laughed yet.”

Setting the book aside once more, Hermione turned back to the feet and tidied up the water and basin before drying off a foot, pulling it to her lap. Running her thumbs up the arch, she chewed on the thoughts in her mind and exhaled before looking up, “Sometimes I forget Harry’s gone and it’s like a usual day after work with Rose itching to get outside and show off. Sometimes I’m reading the bedtime story and feel him walking in.” She worked the foot in her hands and swallowed the pain down. “He’s here and he’s gone, and there’s so much—” voice cracking, Hermione stopped because she didn’t have anything else to say, she had no idea what it was that crowded like a sudden fist in her heart.

“Oi,” came the soft sound of Parkinson’s voice above her as she pulled her feet away and sat up, pulling until their faces were a breath apart, Hermione bracketed by her knees, eyes upturned. The blue of her robe was loose and gapped just fraction as she leaned forward. Hyacinth curled delicately as her grey eyes flinted green in the light and Hermione was caught in them, in the flicker of something once familiar. “He’s still here,” Parkinson said, and it didn’t make sense, but it felt right, and Hermione tentatively let out the breath she was holding. Parkinson’s fingers slid into her hair and a thumb caressed her cheek as she nodded, affirming, “He’s not gone.”

Tears welled up and fell down Parkinson’s cheeks. A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth and her eyes moved over Hermione’s face reverently, searching. “Here,” she whispered against Hermione’s lips, brushing them together softly, tentatively. Honey lingered and Hermione skimmed the flavor on her tongue.

Face cradled like a precious sprout put to earth, Hermione was drawn close, seeking the sun of Pansy’s light. Closing her eyes to it, she gave in to the feeling, hands coming up to Parkinson’s neck and shoulder. Squeezed shut, she saw flashes of bright green eyes behind her eyelids and whimpered, pulling Pansy closer. She angled her mouth, then pushed until it was nearly all teeth, straddling Parkinson’s lap in the sleep shorts, black locks tangled in her palm. Long fingers slid up her thighs and dug into her ass and wrapped around her waist. She moaned as they slid up her back, and she was back in time, her first flat, the wide jaw nuzzling into her chest, murmuring underneath as he gripped tightly.

A whimper of pain. Staring blankly at the blackened grey-green irises, she pulled away to divine the meaning.

“Don’t stop,” Parkinson husked, hands coming back to her face and pulling her down. Dragging her lips over them again, she tasted a hint of blood and pulled back again, eyes tracking to the split on Parkinson’s upper lip. “I’m fine,” the taller woman asserted as she palmed Hermione’s breast.

Diving back down, she gentled her lips and moved beyond Parkinson’s mouth to her jaw, then her ear, teeth nabbing the lobe roughly and causing her to gasp. She needed this, whatever it was, she needed it intensely, a splash of water on a landed fish and she was left breathless, gasping. The satin of Pansy’s robe slipped beneath her thighs and she slid her thighs widely until she notched neatly in Pansy’s lap. She alternately opened her eyes, catching glimpses of smooth skin, black hair, the line of a jaw, swollen lips, heavy eyes. Deft fingers plucked at her nipple through her tank and robe and Hermione groaned before watching, eyes locked to the fingers roughly squeezing and working her nipple. Though it was Pansy, the touch felt familiar, and when Pansy’s slimmer hand scraped downwards and gripped her hip, Hermione closed her eyes and steadied herself with a hand to the armchair.

A breathless assent tumbled out and she rocked herself in Pansy’s lap. Angry fingertips dug into her hip and she could see him in her mind, smirking mirthlessly against her as she was moved forcefully back and forth.

A low “That’a girl,” murmured against her neck sent shivers down her spine.

Hand in the midnight hair at her neck, Hermione half-sobbed.

There was a clatter and shuffle at the fireplace and Hermione yanked Pansy’s head back by the scruff of her hair and twisted. Looking down at their bodies, she saw that they looked exactly like what they had been doing as Ron cleared his throat. She scrabbled back, tidying herself.

“Well, then,” he said flatly, one hand on the side of the hearth while he worked his shoes off his feet. His round eyes moved between the two women and down Hermione’s body.

It couldn’t have been worse, Hermione thought, until Ginny flashed behind Ron and pushed his bulky frame aside, “Ron, you’re such a—” and the other redhead’s eyes bugged out as well before she blinked and blushed, looking down and away as Hermione clambered back and retied her robe.

“I’m—” Hermione started as Ron spoke.

“I called up Gin—”

“Oh,” Hermione watched Pansy flush and gather herself together before stalking to the kitchen. The tears on her face cooled and she wiped at them. Of all the times for Ron to come home earlier than expected.

“After the meeting, I called Gin,” Ron gestured to his sister, “to see if you wanted to go out for a drink with me.”

“But I think I’ll head back out,” Gin quickly stated with a wince, and waved, pushing Ron the rest of the way out of the hearth in order to pinch a bit of powder and leave.

Wiping her eyes again, Hermione cleared her throat. “Bye,” she managed before the redhead completely disappeared. Looking back to Ron, she found his face blank.

For one of the few times in his life, the words that came out of his mouth weren’t completely emotionally ignorant. “Should I, um,” he thumbed over his shoulder. “I didn’t realize—”

Hermione’s mouth worked itself open and closed as she searched his face. “I have no idea,” she replied and looked to the kitchen. Parkinson was lost in the pantry, or pretending to be, and Hermione’s chest felt hollow. Licking her lips, she looked to Ron and realized she wasn’t available tonight. “You know,” she took in a deep breath, “I think I need some time alone tonight.”

Immediately his eyes flicked to the kitchen and back, but Ron remained quiet. Nodding, he leaned down cleared his throat. “Well, would you like a hug before I go?”

Half-smiling, Hermione nodded and ducked down for a hug. With a resolute nod and pursed lips, Ron stepped back, called out his flat, and disappeared in green flames.

With an exasperated sigh, she flopped down on the couch. What a bloody mess.

The sound of the kettle in the kitchen went off and she could hear Parkinson putter about as she turned over the embarrassment of her evening. Rubbing her hands over her face, Hermione groaned quietly.

 _Making a mess of things?_ Harry said in her head. _Can’t just have one thing, can you, now,_ he said, harkening back to their first talks after the war.

“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled to her palms.

“I am?” Parkinson asked.

“Bloody hell,” Hermione sighed and scrubbed her face tiredly.

“Talking to yourself?”

Dropping her hands, Hermione looked up to see Parkinson still standing by the coffee table. “Look, I think I just need some space.”

Raising her eyebrows, Parkinson tilted her head to the side. “That might be the most sensible thing you’ve said since July.

“I don’t feel like trading quips, alright? I am…suitably hollow and have another…” she looked to the clock on the wall above the fireplace, “approximately nine hours to figure out how to fall apart and be put back together for the girls.” It wasn’t Parkinson’s fault she was currently falling apart, but the unraveling of her emotions pulled Hermione’s sympathies to their limits all the same. “I don’t have it in me to—” Hermione flopped a hand to the side and let it fall to the couch.

Parkinson nodded thoughtfully and looked away for a moment. Working the inside of her cheek, the taller woman gazed at Hermione softly and the idea of Parkinson considering her turned uncomfortably in Hermione’s gut.

“Alright,” Pansy breathed out, coming to a decision. “I’ll be headed up,” the taller woman paused, conflict moving itself through her features, “and if you need—” Here Parkinson cleared her throat and looked away, “If you need anything, let me know.”

Nodding, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to look at Pansy anymore.

* * *

The week that followed was agonizingly slow and emotionally wrought. Jordan had another meltdown over wanting to see Daddy Harry and Parkinson had suddenly decided to make herself more available, as if trying to make up for the mortifying experience of being caught with her.

Getting up in the mornings was tedious, muscling through the motions with the girls was draining, and trying to make it work for everyone kept her from really taking time to pull out and examine her feelings. The concavity of grief kept folded neatly to the side, Hermione pushed until Tuesday the next week, when Rose and Jordan had synchronized their tantrums and Hermione sent both upstairs mid-dinner.

Parkinson sat wide-eyed and silent at the table, fork frozen mid-bite, and watched as Hermione stomped after them, ire barely in check as the two young children went through their bed time routines and were put to bed without a story. Hermione stalked to her room and shut her door, determined to avoid Parkinson’s eyes. Running her hands through her hair, she stomped back and forth across the room, taking large breaths and holding them in as the panic rose up from her belly.

She knew what was happening as soon as it plunked in gut and rushed to the bathroom, throwing up the lid and emptying her stomach in the toilet. She reached for her wand on her thigh, but it wasn’t there, and the panic skittered hotly up her chest and crawled over her ribs, constricting her breathing. She couldn’t send a patronus to Ron or Ginny. She was alone. Panting for air, she curled into herself as the thoughts and feelings circled and crowded. Black curls, angry eyes, sharp knife. Sharp. Everything was sharp as she clung her forearm and backed into the tub.

As the feeling rolled through her, she mumbled, working through the chants to bring her back to reality. “I’m on the floor,” she grit through her teeth, feeling the cold tiles under her. “I’m on the floor, I’m on the floor,” the repetition compulsory more than grounding, the words known.

Then a towering figure, black hair, and Hermione threw an arm out, slicing into the air. The figure stumbled back, then pushed forward again and got closer, too close, and she wrangled back, fists finding purchase on the body.

Then words started to filter in, hands combing back her hair, “You’re in your bathroom, you’re in Harry’s house. Breathe, come on, breathe. Hermione, you’re Hermione Granger, you’re home, it’s Harry’s house, your house. I need you to breathe.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Hermione followed the words as the numbness receded. Exhaling carefully, she inhaled quickly.

“There, now let it out and breathe in again,” the voice commanded gently. Against her fears, Hermione followed the instructions a few more times until she opened her eyes. Parkinson was all but straddling her, eyes relieved as Hermione focused on her. She nodded to Hermione, careful in her touch, careful in her eyes as hands cradled her face. “There you are,” the woman sighed and nodded again. “Breathe again. There you are.”

At the realization that Parkinson was here, that she saw this, Hermione flushed clamped her mouth shut, pulling her face away from the gentle hands.

Parkinson stiffened, but remained in place. “What can I do?”

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, irritated at herself. Irritated that Pansy dare help her now, of all the times. “I think I just need some sleep.”

Pulling back and up, Parkinson offered a hand to Hermione. Shaky from the panic attack, she stood without help.

“You can’t keep ignoring it,” Parkinson noted.

“Just—“ Hermione snapped back, but stopped herself. She was better than that. Clenching her jaw, she shook her head gingerly and tidied up the toilet. “I can do as I please,” softer, she didn’t snap so much as explain, schooling her features before looking to Parkinson. “Thank you.”

Raising her chin, Parkinson’s soft eyes hardened. “Of course,” she replied and left.

Alone in the bathroom, bits of sick still on the floor, Hermione wondered how she had gotten herself this far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a bit more planned in the next few chapters, there's more reveal and backstory happening with Pansy.  
> Ron doesn't always have to be a prat, now does he?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's arm acts up, and after Pansy tries to insert herself, Hermione calls the woman out. The mess is finally put on the table and Pansy has a decision to make.

"Talk to me about it," Pansy propped against the island opposite from where Hermione stood.

"No." Hermione had done a lot of her own work over the years, saw a couple therapists (muggle therapists were better, but she couldn't risk the exposure), and generally stayed on top of her emotional well-being. After all, it didn't help anyone to ignore the issues and signs of her own PTSD.

Clearing her throat, Pansy straightened her shoulders and pushed, "I don't think you get it, Granger, I live here now and I'm not going anywhere, so it'd be better to talk to me—"

Already irritated, Hermione cut her off, "Are you, though? Do you honestly believe you'll stay? Ron thinks you'll be leaving after the baby is born. Ginny guesses you might last a couple years."

An angry fire burned in Pansy's eyes and she clenched her jaw, "Being an arse isn't going to change the fact—"

"I think I'll go for a stroll." Hermione set down her mug and walked out of the kitchen.

"Granger," Pansy's voice followed as the door closed.

* * *

"Anything else, madam?" Danbury asked as she began wrapping up at her desk. "Would you like me to call anyone for you?"

The headache pulsed behind her eyes and Hermione rubbed her temples carefully, thinking of the few people she should call. "No, that won't be necessary," she sighed. Should she call Ron?

Since Harry's funeral and Pansy's arrival, everything felt disjointed and disorganized. No matter how much she tried to pull the threads of her life back together, things kept slipping away, she kept slipping up and making mistakes.

Maybe she could convince Ron to stay a few nights in a row, she thought as she bit her lip and stared at the wall.

"Ma'am?" Danbury prodded her out of the dead-stare.

Shaking her head, Hermione refocused on the undersecretary and then her desk. The files were still in disarray and Thomas waited patiently, kindly.

"I've been a bit preoccupied, sorry," she apologized. Thinking quickly, she looked up, "What is on the calendar for the next three weeks? Anything urgent?" She hadn't taken a vacation this year—another reminder that Harry's death had imploded their family unit, and maybe she and the girls could get out and go camping.

"There's the quarterly meeting in two weeks, you've the interview with Shacklebolt next week—we already discussed that earlier today—and...those are all of the significant events. There is the matter of your birthday celebration coming up—"

With a large sigh, Hermione nodded, "Of course, but we have to get through Samhain first, right?"

Danbury shifted, "Well, the plans for your birthday require a bit of planning—"

Feeling the headache pulse sharply, Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and focused on being kind. "We've known each other for five years, haven't we, Thomas?"

The man nodded carefully, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good, then I'll hand over the decision-making to you. I am thinking of taking next week off, can we swing a meeting with the Minister sooner?"

Looking down at the calendar in his hand, Danbury frowned, but nodded. "I'll send a missive first thing tomorrow morning, ma'am. Anything else?"

Quietly, she shook her head and gave a weak smile, "No, thank you, Danbury, you've done more than enough. Thank you."

Getting home to the girls already running about the backyard with Ron, Hermione smiled through the pain. That much was good to see.

She tidied up a bit, picking up the magazines left on the coffee table and shooting a dusting spell over the ceiling to shake away the cobwebs in the corners before opening the back door.

Smiling, she watched the three play in the slightly chill afternoon, arms crossed.

"Mummy!" Jordan noticed her first and barreled into her thigh.

Brushing a hand over the orange curls, Hermione smiled at her daughter. "Hello my precious," she murmured as she bent down to pick her up for a big hug. The small thing squeezed harder, her thin bony arms tight across her neck.

Ron and Rose waved with a shout, "Hey Mum!"

Cocking the smaller child on her hip, Hermione waved back and asked Ron, "Have you anything planned for dinner?"

Shaking his head, he shrugged, "You want me to get some take away?"

"That sounds good," she nodded and bounced Jordan on her hip with a smile. "Back off with you," she goaded the child back to the yard after setting her down.

* * *

Putting away dishes from the dishwasher, Hermione considered how to word things with Ron. "I'm thinking of taking some time off of work, maybe take the girls camping with me."

Brushing some hair from his eyes as he washed the larger or more delicate items, Ron nodded and queried, "Over a weekend or...?"

"Maybe a long weekend, not sure just yet," Hermione replied.

As she continued putting dishes away, Ron stopped washing and took a long moment to look her over. "What's going on, Hermione?" he asked softly.

Grabbing the last of the cups and stacking them before putting them into the cupboard, Hermione sighed. "I had a panic attack over the weekend," she admitted. "Pansy was here, she helped."

"What? But you haven't—"

"I know, Ronald!" she snapped. "It's just—I'm just—" with a large heaving breath, she closed the dishwasher and leaned back on the counter. "With Harry gone, everything feels...wrong. Nothing is okay, anymore. Most of the time I can count on you, but lately it feels like you're pulling away from us. Last week was really hard on me with you being away—and I'm not blaming you—I just." Hermione stops and takes another breath to look up at Ron. "I miss him. I miss _us_."

Wiping his hands on the towel, Ron stepped closer and drew her close, his long arms wrapping around her shoulders. Silent, he held her close, nuzzling her hair.

After a long silence, he murmured lowly, "Okay," and shifted to prop his chin atop her head. "I'll talk to Robards, see if I can get a reduction in foreign cases." A hand warmly rubbed down her back and his fingers circled her lower back. "That will mean less for our savings, though." After another rub of his cheek across her head, Ron squeezed a little tighter, "And I am okay with that if you are."

Closing her eyes, Hermione wondered if the change in case assignment would really be what they needed or if perhaps this whole situation was just ludicrous. Was she losing her nerve?

"You know, I know it isn't happening for two years, but Dad'll be retiring. Maybe one of us could lighten our work load until then? Spend more time with the family and the girls?" The idea of Ron giving up more of the job he loved seemed unfair, but Hermione filed away that he had offered. "And you know how Mum feels about having the girls over—she would be delighted to see them more often."

With a wet laugh, Hermione pictured the rebuilt Burrow with all seven rooms, most of which were now empty. Molly already had rooms for the girls and Victorie. The woman would not hesitate to invite them back to the Burrow and to be there for her grandchildren.

Not everyone was cut out to be a stay-at-home parent, but Molly had made it work, and now that she was no longer wrangling seven children and a distracted husband, she was all-too happy to spoil the grand kids and make time for their family. The woman was a veritable saint, especially considering that she hadn't once tried to change the way that Ron, Harry, and Hermione had restructured their lives together.

Nodding against his shoulder, Hermione breathed in his familiar scent and let her heart slow its beating. "I'm looking to take time off next week," she mentioned. "Maybe I could take a few days off and get out of town."

Another squeeze from Ron and he pulled back, eyes worried, but soft. "If that's what you'd like to do, I can make a few arrangements with Mum." A kiss to her forehead and then, "Unless you'd rather ask her?"

Eyes trailing over his beard and up to his eyes, she considered that maybe she should chat with Molly. They hadn't had much time together since the funeral reception and Rose's birthday.

"Yeah, let me send her an owl tomorrow once I hear from Shacklebolt," came the reply.

"Good. Let me finish up, then? You wanna night out? Take a bath?"

Smushing her face to neck and smiling against the overwhelming sadness that refused to leave, she breathed deeply. "A bath, I think."

"Got it."

"And a glass of wine."

At the addition, Ron laughed.

"Will we talk about the panic attack after?" he asked as he went back to dishes.

Hermione stiffened, worrying her lower lip.

* * *

Kingsley had time for a Friday morning meeting, thankfully, and Danbury cleared her schedule for the following week. Tuesday already seemed less daunting and the tingling in her shoulder, though burning, didn't fray her nerves quite as much.

By the time she was through the front door, however, her shoulder was on fire and she all but stampeded up the stairs, pausing briefly at the top to huff a short "Hey," to Parkinson as the woman stepped from her doorway.

"Everything okay?" the woman's voice trailed after Hermione as she winced through the bedroom door to change. "It's fine," she replied tightly, stripping off the form-fitting vest and button-up, she kicked off her slacks and grabbed the joggers to pull up her bare legs.

The burning became more cutting and she bit back a growl on the way to the bathroom to pop some acetaminophen. Closing her eyes as the pills were washed down by a large cup of water, Hermione leaned her forehead against the doorjamb and focused on getting through the pain enough to pick the girls up from Molly's.

"What is going on?" Pansy again tried cornering her and Hermione looked up with a sneer. "You're hurt and something is wrong."

"Ten points for slytherin for an obvious observation," snapped Hermione, going to push her way past the taller woman.

"No," Pansy resolutely returned as her arm came up and blocked Hermione's exit. "You don't get to waltz in here and play the victim. You don't get to bring your problems and push me away because you're feeling vulnerable."

At this, Hermione laughed humorlessly. "Oh? No? You have the monopoly on that, do you?" She shoved Parkinson's arm away and made her way to the front room as her shoulder burned brightly.

"What's going on, Granger?" Parkinson followed doggedly down the stairs and into the front room. "If you don't tell me, I'm calling Mrs. Weasley."

Whirling around, Hermione laughed, "You don't even know their address, you can't be _bothered_ to care about the rest of Harry's family, what makes you think I think you care about me?"

Turning back to the pantry cupboard against the wall, Hermione began gathering the necessary supplies to brew the nerve numbing potion. The angry crawl of it down to her elbow had her nearly in tears and she frustratingly searched for the mugwart with one hand, the other arm cradled against her side.

Unable to find the contemptible ingredient, Hermione huffed and grabbed her wand, focusing on a spell she'd learned the summer after sixth year, she cast the dampening spell on her elbow, eyes fixedly glaring at the arm.

God, she hated days like this, days where the obvious effects of Bellatrix couldn't be ignored. On good days, she focused on the pain and channeled it into a proud sense of self—she had survived and lived to see the witch die. She was stronger than Bellatrix, better, kinder.

But there were days that being better didn't matter because the world just felt so much bigger. The itchy crawl of failure scraping under her skin as she wondered if this day would be the day they'd amputate the arm, if the girls would see that it was possible to be broken and beaten, if she would be enough or if one day someone would come and orphan the brightest and kindest parts of herself.

With a muttered curse as tears began falling, she stalked beyond a worried Parkinson and to the fireplace, wand setting fire to the empty grate and fire-called Neville.

Trailing after, Parkinson watched intensely and Hermione wanted to scream at her to bugger off, to go bother someone else.

As soon as Neville's face appeared, Hermione felt a slight relief, "Neville, I'm out of mugwarts and—"

Apparently knowing what was needed already, Neville nodded, "Got it, Hermione, let me grab my latest batch—" and his face disappeared a moment.

"What is going on—"

Hermione angrily glared at Pansy to shut her up before Neville's face returned. "I've got a batch, here, want me to bring it?"

Contemplating how much she detested wanting his company in the moment, she nodded and stood back. "Yes, please."

Another moment and the fire flashed green and Neville's tall frame stepped through, reversing the shrinking spell, the lidded small cauldron in his hands. "Here," he said as he made way to the kitchen. Upon noticing Pansy, he smiled distractedly, "Oh, hello, Pansy," he greeted.

"What's going on?" she demanded again.

Clearing his throat and looking at Hermione as he settled the cauldron down, Neville opened and closed his mouth, clearly unsure. "Well, um," he gulped.

"I've nerve damage from a _cruciatus_ ," Hermione stated flatly as Neville began filling a cup with the potion, and wiping the edges, handed it to Hermione.

"What cruciatus?" Pansy quietly asked a moment later.

Hermione and Neville exchanged a look and Hermione tossed back the potion. The acrid burnt taste smoked down her throat and she winced, choking it down, knowing that it was better than the alternative.

Slowly the bright gnawing sensation gripping her elbow and shoulder loosened and she heaved a sigh of relief before taking another huge draught. "Thank you, Neville," she sighed, her shoulders drooping as the sensation in her nerves subsided into a numb tingling.

Smiling gently, Neville puttered to the front room and came back with stoppered flasks, putting them along the fridge door shelf. "Anytime," he said easily with soft eyes. Then, "Except next week—I'll be out of town." And then turning to face Hermione's shoulder he pointed, "So behave," came the command seriously.

With a huff, Hermione rolled her eyes and dared to stretch the arm a little, testing the limits. She slowly pulled the shoulder up and put her ear to it, "It says it knows no master," the reply came easily.

Neville smirked at Hermione and raised an eyebrow before taking a gander about the kitchen. "It's far too quiet," he remarked with a frown. He turned back to Hermione, "Want to do some exercises?"

With a silent snarl, Hermione nodded and stepped closer.

As Neville's hands stopped midair and he glanced between the two women. "Would you like me to show Pansy how...?"

"Yes."

Pansy immediately came closer as Hermione scoffed "No."

Frozen between the two obstinate women, Neville lowered his hands and chuckled. "In deference to Harry's sense of chaos, watch closely, Pansy. I'll walk you through the exercises and Hermione will have to save her hexes for when I'm done."

"Using Harry's name is low, Longbottom," Hermione growled, but allowed him to place his wide palm on her shoulder and lift the arm by the elbow.

Instruction came naturally to him, and Pansy watched intently, commenting and asking about limits and why this or why not that. Quietly Hermione let the two move her shoulder and elbow joints this way and that, responding when asked for feedback.

When Neville made it down to her hand, his calloused fingers circled her wrist and he nodded to Pansy with a smile, "Here, draw your fingers on the underside, here," his eyes moving between Hermione's hand and Pansy. "This area," he pointed to the last two knuckles, "is connected to the radial nerve where there was significant tearing. If it's _burning brightly_ —as Hermione puts it—she needs more than just the potion, she'll need to soak the hand and wrist for at least an hour and wrap it to keep the joint immobile."

Nodding, Pansy listened closely to Neville and Hermione's self-consciousness began to rise as the two moved her about this way and that.

Then Pansy's eyes were locked on hers and the woman gave a soft smile. "I give you two hexes, free of consequence, but after that, Granger..." she trailed off gently.

A flush crept up from her gut and Hermione rolled her eyes. "This doesn't happen often. Don't worry about my hexes. Worry about your indigestion." She didn't want to feel the pull of attraction like velvet up her spine when Pansy looked at her like that.

Turning to Neville, Hermione cleared her throat and glared with a lilt, "Are we done manhandling me for your lesson, Professor?"

His calloused fingers gently squeezed again and he let go with a smile. "Of course. Excellent job on your presentation, Ms. Granger."

Pansy laughed and immediately stopped when she saw the dead-eyed stare from Hermione.

"Hannah says to come by next week if you have time off," Neville chatted over his shoulder as he vanished the dregs from his cauldron, shrinking it, and then tucking it away for the floo ride back.

"Hogwarts or the cottage?" Hermione wanted to know so she could pack appropriately.

"Either, really, you know Hannah is just as apt to change her mind," he shrugged.

With a sigh, Hermione considered the cottage the two shared in Bal’rath as opposed to the Herbology cabin. "I'll be visiting the Burrow first. Should I firecall?"

Smiling, Neville shrugged again, "We'll expect you sometime, but you can firecall if you want to give Hannah a heads up so she is properly dressed?"

Laughing at the last time she showed up without calling first, when Hannah shrieked and nearly set Hermione on fire at the unexpected intrusion, she shrugged back with a wry grin. "Maybe I'll not call then," she joked.

Eyes shining, Neville pinched some powder and tossed it into the flames of the fire he had restarted. "It's your hair," he remarked, then, "It was nice to see you, Pansy. We'll have to have dinner sometime soon." And just like that, flash, the man was gone.

Closing her eyes, Hermione took a deep breath and the silence of the house settled uncomfortably around her. The sound of Pansy in the kitchen with the kettle drifted over and she turned to the arm chair and looked down at the poetry book. The last time Pansy sat there, she had broken down and Pansy had comforted her.

"Chamomile?" came the offer.

"No, thank you," she turned down the offer and headed to the fridge, reaching up to grab the scotch. With a deep breath, she looked at the clock and calculated exactly how much she could have with fewest issues in the morning with the girls.

The numbing feel of her wand arm buzzed and she grit her teeth at the memory. Everything was at the surface, lately, and Harry was gone. The basterd was gone and he'd left her and Ron with what? With Pansy Parkinson? The peaty gold liquid splashed into a glass and she cast a chilling charm on it before tossing it back. It tasted disgusting and she briefly considered flinging the bloody bottle against the wall. Instead she poured another finger, and wincing, tossed that back, too.

A warm dry hand wrapped around the hand on the bottle, "Hey," Pansy whispered, closer than Hermione remembered her being.

"Bugger off, Parkinson," Hermione shoved the hand away.

"No," Pansy stubbornly grabbed the bottle and jammed the cork back in the neck and set it on the fridge again. "You're going to tell me what the hell is going on so I can be a better flatmate."

"I said, 'bugger off,' Parky," Hermione shouldered the taller woman to reach for the bottle.

"Tell me," Pansy repeated as she accio'ed the bottle and held it above her. "Tell me and I'll pour the entirety of this down your throat for you."

"You," Hermione's voice dropped dangerously as she contemplated the audacity of the person in front of her. 

She waltzes in after Harry dies, treats her and Ron like second-hand shirts, and then decides that she is owed an explanation? 

As if her entire presence wasn't an imposition, and she wasn't some hypocrite? Her non-dominant hand poked at her shoulder, "You don't ever get to tell me, _anything_ ," she growled. "Not when you show up here, and what? Can't be bothered to even say one kind word to any of us?" Another jab and the fire in her gut was rising like her voice, "You demand answers and give nothing. You flirt, you flounce, you come and go as you please, never mind that there are children here who _actually adore you for some god-forsaken reason_ , and what? You give us nothing. You-you—" She jabbed another time and took satisfaction at the wince and back step, "And now you suddenly care about me? Now you want to play nurse? You don't get to come into our lives when it suits you, Parkinson. You don't get to act like I'm some kind of... cretin for having an attraction to you and turn around and act as if you're my friend!" Vision suddenly blurry, Hermione realized she had started crying, "I am falling apart, and my daughters are hurting, and my partner is trying, and what? What are you doing, Parkinson? Sneering? Scoffing at us all the while?" And the fire in her gut condensed until it couldn't be held back any further, "And to top it off, Harry is dead! He's fucking dead and leaves us with—" She clamped her teeth shut as she realized the words that were about to come, the unfairness of them quelling her ire immediately and twisting painfully.

But Pansy heard what she hadn't finished, and the woman set her jaw and raised her chin defiantly. "He died and left you with Pansy Parkinson," she finished for Hermione, the pretty bow of her lips twisting artfully over the words. "Harry died and ruined your perfect little life, and now you're stuck with me, right? A woman who doesn't deserve to exist anywhere near the holy trinity? A pureblood fascist unworthy of love, right?"

Working her jaw, Hermione wished she hadn't had those two shots, feeling the slight unsteady buzzing beginning. This was spiraling out of control and she had to get things back on track. "No one said that," she swallowed and took a deep breath.

"And yet, it's all I hear when Ron comes over, and apparently, when you show your true colors," Pansy's voice was deceptively calm.

"No, you don't," Hermione pointed at her face and her hand was promptly smacked away with disdain. "You don't get to flip the switch and act as if you're some victim, Pansy," Hermione accused. "I have been _trying_ —god, sometimes it seems that that is all I'm doing some days— _trying_ to get through to you, to connect. And you shot me down, Pansy. You looked me dead in the eye just outside that door," Hermione pointed to the back door, "And sneered at me for even daring bring up the idea of intimacy with me. I can't shut myself on-and-off at will. And it isn't fair that I am constantly, _god am I constantly worrying_ about how long you're going to be here."

Pansy's face was frozen, and she remained quiet as Hermione went off, "And for what? Why are you here? If we’re all so detestable, so beneath you, why stay?"

Pansy's expression flickered and Hermione thought, for just a flicker of a moment, that the woman would explain herself.

"I understand that there is a lot here that I don't understand," Pansy said instead, "And maybe it was a mistake to come."

Hermione's heart contracted, but she clenched her non-dominant hand to hold back the urge to fix it, to fix things. "I like you, Pansy, but I cannot keep going with whatever this is." She went to the island and picked up the empty tumbler and put it in the sink for the next day. "I'm going to finish up this week at work and then I'll be going out of town next week. The girls will either be with me or at the Burrow."

Scrubbing a hand over her forehead, she considered her next words before saying them out loud. Turning to face Pansy, Hermione took a deep breath and sighed. "I have panic attacks because of what happened at Malfoy Manor nine years ago and the Battle of Hogwarts. They are a part of the PTSD that Harry, Ron, and I all share. Shared. And I have nerve damage and bum shoulder on my dominant side from when Bellatrix forcibly held me down and performed the _cruciatus_ on me over the course of days." The numbing sensation flickered over her skin like dull electricity and clenched her fist. "My shoulder and elbow...well, it's easy for them to get messed up when someone holds them down as the rest of you writhes."

With another deep breath, Hermione closed her eyes and focused on clearing her emotions. "Those are the big demons, to answer your questions." She looked up to Pansy, no longer afraid. "I have mostly good days—well, I had rarely had bad days when Harry was alive." Rubbing her temples, she let her head fall back. "But as you can tell, everything in the trio isn't exactly _golden_ , anymore."

Thinking back to when the three of them had first all moved in together and it had been part chaos, part determination keeping them together most weeks, she huffed a laugh to the ceiling, eyes tracking the stain from when Harry and Ron had gotten into a pizza war over something no one could remember anymore. Merlin's tit, she hated that stain and how it wouldn't come out.

"What else is there to know?" she continued, mind now emptying itself as if on disk defrag and pulling random bits out as everything reshuffled itself. "Obviously, Rose is Harry's and Jordan is Ron's, and um...I don't think Harry has any other children, well, I know he doesn't, from the—" she waved a hand, "the solicitor's letter of real property. And um, we were thinking of getting a kneazle this Christmas since Crooks passed last year." At the thought of her first pet, her very first companion's death, she teared up again.

What else could Pansy need to know? "What else do you need answered, Pansy? How else can I make this easier for you?" She couldn't help the bitter sound from creeping into the words.

Pansy's mouth opened and closed, resolute in her silence. With a sardonic smirk, Hermione huffed and shook her head. "You have until I get back to figure out if you want to stay. Otherwise, I'm making the call, and no amount of blood magic will make a damn difference." Leaning forward, she waited another moment before giving Pansy a nod and heading upstairs.

"I have issues with abandonment," the woman suddenly blurted as Hermione reached the hallway. "My, um, my parents went missing sometime before Christmas in sixth year. No one found their bodies until after the Battle. I think—" Hermione turned at the stop to find Pansy still stiff, but determined, "I know Dolohov had cast some sort of stasis curse on them. I don't do well coming home to an empty house unless that is how it's supposed to be. And I don't do well when there are sudden guests, random visits." The woman licked her lips and looked over Hermione's shoulder, "Seventh year during Christmas, Dolohov came by floo to tell me my parents were off serving the Dark Lord and that I should—I should follow the directions they left him." At this, the woman looked at Hermione and it hadn't needed to be said to be understood what had been insinuated. "Luckily, Ursa could feel through his magic that he was lying," Pansy smirked.

"Anyways, Ursa couldn't find Mother or Father, which meant they were hidden somewhere. And since she could still sense them, they were alive, however weak."

Hermione had read about the intrinsic depth of a house elf's bond with a family, especially ones born through generations to a family. And given that many of the sacred 28 had elves for centuries, the blood loyalty must have been incredibly strong. She remembered an account from the 1700s of an acquaintance nearly being burned alive by a house elf for having the audacity to come unannounced through their floo.

"We never found them," she stated again. "Not until after the Battle and someone got a tip from a homicide report from a muggle auror." The woman went to the cup of tea left on the counter and took a long drink. "I got the report from Harry and never saw him again. Until…I did. And we hooked up and he—he didn't ask me to be nice. He never once told me to be better. He would send an owl, show up, and leave." Looking away, Pansy cleared her throat, "I know that sounds terribly detached, but Harry was the first person who kept their word. He had everything—all this—" she raised the cup out to the house, "but he always showed up, except the one time Jordan got sick last year." A pause, "And the time he collapsed outside of work and sent me a _patronus_ to come get him."

"So why bother even having his kid?" she pushed.

With a wry twist of her lips, she looked at Hermione, "Would you believe me if I said I wanted to have a child someday?"

"No," came the immediate reply and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I know I'm not the warmest person," Pansy explained, "but one of the reasons Lavender and I split was because I wanted a kid."

"You hadn't planned on having a child with Harry."

A pause, then, "No. We hadn't—and Harry had said he didn't want another child. And honestly, I had been planning to have a child five years in the future, certainly not with Harry." The woman finished the tea and looked at Hermione with a blank expression again, "People don't want people like me to have kids, they don't like the idea of someone like me, daughter of purported Death Eaters, to procreate. Like we're somehow contagious."

With another roll of her eyes, Hermione laughed drily. "Do tell."

"I get how that sounds," Pansy replied immediately. "But imagine the day at the solicitor's where I learned that my unborn baby, Harry's child, would have a stake in his home. Bean—" the dark-haired woman stopped and restarted, "The baby would be Harry's baby, we could live—"

At the words, it suddenly made more sense, now. Pansy staying because she knew it safer for herself and her baby than if she were to be on her own. Nodding, Hermione felt gutted. "Of course," she muttered, looking away. How silly of her to imagine that Pansy had some sort of sentimental attachment to Harry, that they shared something more than just a home.

Pansy kept talking, but Hermione wasn't listening. Ron was right. She had been so excited at the thought of another baby, at the thought they'd have another part of Harry, that she had ignored the obvious reality of the situation, the obvious truth that this was _convenient_. Pansy wouldn't stay longer than it took for public opinion to turn, then she'd take Harry's last born and go.

Her heart grieved all over again. He was gone, Pansy would leave with the baby, and there was nothing else for them. She looked back up at the woman to see her reaching out, and Hermione twitched away.

No. She just spent months _trying_ for Harry, _trying_ because she thought it was the right thing to do and her heart twinged painfully.

"I'm so stupid," she whispered, stepping back.

"What?" Pansy reached out again and this time it was Hermione who slapped her hand down angrily.

"No," she growled lowly and turned to the fireplace once more, throwing her wand up with a silent spell to set it aflame. Throwing in a pinch, she stepped inside, Pansy on her tail, and called out Ron's hearth.

Feet thudding soundly, Hermione stepped out of his fireplace and wiped her shoes on the mat. "Ron?" she called out, vaguely aware he might have company and not wanting to intrude too much. "Ron," she called more firmly into the dark of the flat, making her way to the kitchen. "Ron, I could really—"

A groan, clearing of a throat, and then Ron emerged from his bedroom, worried and clearly half-asleep, "Oi," he grunted eyeing her, "Where're the girls? Ev'rthin okay?"

Feeling her resolve break some, Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. Immediately, Ron grabbed her arms and looked down, "Where are the girls?" he asked as he dragged them to the fireplace, hand in the air with a wordless accio, then a flick of a wrist and flames.

"They're okay, Ron," Hermione got out. "They're fine. I just—You were right—" Hermione tried explaining against the wall of shame and grief.

Eyes searching Hermione's face, Ron set his jaw and spoke quietly, sleep nearly gone from his expression, "What’d she do?"

Hermione shook her head, "Nothing," she answered dumbly. "My arm acted up and I'm—Ron, I'm having a really hard time." The tears came even though she wanted to hold them back, she hated that she couldn't keep her emotions in check, even now.

His jaw worked as he looked her over carefully. "Let's get back," he decided. Another flick of the wand and a pinch of powder was in the flames and Ron gripped her hand firmly as they whirled back home.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Pansy stood from the armchair, worry and hesitation etched into her features. At Hermione's stony silence, she stayed put, eyes warily dancing between the two. Blinking and looking away, Pansy nodded as her face set into one of her unreadable expressions.

She ignored the twinge in her heart as Ron led her upstairs.

Pansy needed a safe place to stay. Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a flan in a cupboard, it's emotional C4.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy finally brings her shit to the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upfront: this chapter is incredibly rough. Feedback welcome, given the usual that it's not a match to gasoline.

The girls chatted as they ate their breakfast, thrilled to have Ron there.

"Miss Parky!" Jordan greeted with a wave from the table.

"Hey there, _ma puce_ ," the dark-haired woman returned gingerly.

"We're going camping, you wanna come?" Rose piped up over her toast, green eyes shining.

Hermione drew in her breath carefully and held it, waiting.

"Oh, you know, I would love to," Pansy lied through her teeth, "but I have plans already. Next time?"

At the words _Next time_ , Hermione cleared her throat and put the knife she had been using to cut the sandwiches down. "I think Ms. Pansy is much too busy to join us, Rooster," Hermione's eyes caught Pansy's and she did her best not to physically shove her out the front door as she spoke. Her shoulder ached, but the burning from the day before was gone which was a vast improvement.

Pansy kept her eyes on Hermione and just watched, clearly something on her mind.

* * *

The girls with Ron, Hermione stepped through the floo Wednesday evening. "Hey there," Molly greeted warmly with a hug. "I thought I was going to have to schedule an appointment at the ministry," the woman joked, round eyes folding up into crescents.

With a laugh, Hermione gave a shrug and "Well, it never hurts."

With a snort and offended look, Molly gave Hermione a once-over and gentled. The warmth of the house and Molly's unspoken understanding slowly wrapped about her and Hermione let herself be drawn into easy conversation with her—for lack of a better description—mother-in-law. "So, I think Fleur is out visiting Charlie in Romania and George is opening another shop somewhere in Wales? Goodness knows how they manage to keep from blowing up their own shop!"

Four hours later, caught up on the family goings-on and arrangements for the girls sorted, the two had plunked on the sofa, splitting the sherry and some of their fonder memories of Harry and summer shenanigans.

After settling down from Molly's perspective on Kreacher, Hermione's thoughts drifted to the darker days that had followed. Pensive, she quieted. "After Percy left...how did you keep everyone happy?"

Molly had had a bit more sherry than usual and had to work for her thoughts. "You mean—how did I keep the kids happy?" she asked. "Or how did I keep Arthur happy?"

"I mean—did you ever feel overwhelmed? Did you ever question things—?" She couldn't give voice to the rest because she wasn't sure what she was saying.

There was a long pause in which Molly gripped the thick crystal in hand and stared at Hermione, mouth pursed. "What does that mean?" the older woman had demanded, clearly confused.

"It means that I love both of them, Molly, and that I said I'd love them until the day I die. Except now—" Hermione swallowed, "Harry's gone. And I can't— I don't know how—to be sensible," she finished lamely.

"But it isn't...sensible," Molly blurted, her red hair glinting in the candlelight.

Smiling gently, Hermione searched Molly's face. "Aren't I supposed to make it—"

"Magic does a lot of things, Hermione," the older woman interrupted, "But it can't make sense."

Frustrated, Hermione stared back, "Something should!" the woman shot back, and then, having realized she shouted, stopped and seemed to think a moment.

Molly giggled, clearly knackered, and then stopped suddenly, as if dropping into deep thought again. "You know, for a long time I thought I couldn't put my happiness first," she had said quietly, leaning forward. The serious expression on her drunken face belied the deep emotion of her words.

"No one tells a mother she is allowed to do as she pleases," Molly nodded as she spoke. "Arthur almost...well," the woman took another sip from the empty cup and then glared at the indignity of it, "Well," she took another breath and looked plainly at Hermione, "If Arthur hadn't sat me down and we had had a different conversation all those years ago, let's just say that Ron and Ginny would never have happened."

Surprised at the admission, Hermione nodded, hearing the woman's words. "So...how did you end up balancing everything?"

At that, Molly barked out a laugh and doubled over, cheeks flushed and eyes glittering. "My dear, I didn't! I never have." With a wave of her empty hand, Molly giggled and gestured about herself. "Truly, after the twins hit five and set the nursery on fire, I stopped trying to make everything perfect." Her round blue eyes circled the house, "Merlin, I'd need a timeturner to get through one week if I tried to keep on top of everyone." Another look around the house, "And I'd need another Molly to clean the house! Hah!"

She had to laugh with her mother-in-law. "So you just...what? picked the top priorities for the day and tackled those?"

The humor in Molly's eyes dimmed a bit, "More or less. Sometimes I put the twins' shenanigans on the backburner—after all, they weren't about to suddenly stop being mischievous. Sometimes I focused on educational goals, sometimes it was a matter of encouraging or pushing Ginny or Ron to stop being shy."

"Ron, shy?" Hermione snorted. How had she never heard this before?

"Oh, Merlin's beard was he ever the shy one! Of course, after turning eight—or was it nine?—anyways, around that age he saw his first quidditch match, and from then on, for him it was just—" she snapped fingers on one hand, "magic. Suddenly he knew what he wanted to say, what he wanted to ask, what broom he wanted to get."

"Really?" Hermione was astounded.

"Oh yes," Molly's head bobbed up and down emphatically. "I think it was, Sinead McMahon? Sinead...McGrath? Oh dear, I can't remember—anyhow—there we were at an afternoon match for Chudley when this woman came streaking out and had that snitch faster than you could say 'floo.' He was done for." Molly smiled broadly, clearly endeared with the quirk of her youngest son.

"But where were we?" Molly searched Hermione's face. "Oh yes. Sensible women," and another giggle. Then somber at another thought, "My dear," she gently spoke, taking Hermione's hand, "Sensible has nothing to do with any of it."

* * *

If Wednesday took a long time, Thursday was an indefinite morass of impatience. Ron stayed with her the rest of the weeknights and Pansy kept to herself, except when Jordan pulled her into coloring, or in the case of Friday after school: guilted her into tea.

Hermione studiously avoided any personal dialogue, still hurt and ashamed of her own naiveté. After getting the girls to bed with a promise of an early travel time, Hermione began gathering the dried foodstuffs and cans she intended to take with them. Only taking a moment, Hermione grabbed a bag from the bottom of the pantry and set it next to the itemson the island.

"What time are you coming back?" Pansy asked.

Hermione looked at the woman for the first time in days and set her jaw. "Sometime Sunday."

Nodding, Pansy went to the kettle to set the water to boil.

"Will the girls be celebrating Samhain next week?"

Silently, Hermione began packing the crackers and jerky into the bag, doing her best to ignore the painful goosebumps rising along her arms.

Fixing a cup, Pansy sipped at it as she leaned against the kitchen sink. "I realize that I crossed a line," she said quietly, "And I'm sorry."

The bag of crisps settled on top, Hermione set the bag on the floor along the hallway, to remind herself in the morning to tuck it in after the sleeping bags. It would be best to grab those sooner rather than later, she determined and set out to the shed out back.

Unlocking the padlock and casting a lumos, she poked around the shed until the boxes with camping gear emerged. Grabbing a couple lanterns, checking fuel, and the requisite tent and cots, she levitated the items behind her and to the car, where she opened the boot and tidily packed it away neatly.

Walking back inside, she moved her eyes around the kitchen, ignoring Pansy at the island watching her closely.

"Can we talk?" Pansy asked, and Hermione stopped.

"About what? The weather?"

Working her lips between her teeth, Pansy mulled over her words. "Look, I'm sorry. I realize that—" she swallowed and looked away before turnign back to Hermione, "I was an arse and it wasn't fair to you."

Taking a deep breath, Hermione considered her words. "That doesn't mean anything to me."

If she wasn't actively working on moving beyond this, Hermione would have found satisfaction seeing Pansy suck in her breath and physically bite her tongue to keep from snapping back at her.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Pansy blurted.

"I don't want you to say _anything_ ," Hermione replied. "You wanted a safe place to stay, you can have it."

Pansy's brow furrowed. "What? What does that mean?"

Tidying up the papers she had left on the table, Hermione didn't look up, "I'll begin looking for another place next week. You can stay here with—" her eyes dropped down to Pansy's slight bump and back up, "You can stay here."

The mug Pansy had been holding was set down hard, and for the first time in her life, Hermione saw Pansy Parkinson speechless.

"I don't want to be here without—"

"I am not living with someone who is looking for free PR," Hermione snipped at the papers. "You couldn't bother to be honest until—what, four months later—and now you want to claim some attachment? I am not exposing my children to unhealthy relationships if I don't have to." Tucking the folders together neatly at a corner, Hermione locked eyes with Pansy, "And I refuse to demonstrate to them that a mother should be another person's emotional whipping boy."

Inhaling deeply, Pansy set her jaw and looked away, clearly working through the notion. "I am attracted to you," she admitted. "And I didn't want to get involved because I didn't want to be rejected once you found out why I had wanted to stay here."

"Must feel good to be right all the time," Hermione blandly offered and moved to the kitchen to tidy up the last few cups and wipe the counters and stove.

"That's not entirely fair," Pansy replied.

Hermione turned to the woman, "The world isn't fair, Parkinson," she retorted. "And this isn't some lesson in school where you get a rough draft before turning in a final. You don't get it, Pansy, this is my life and my family."

"Fine, move out if you need to, but what happens if I still want to see you?"

"You can keep those feelings, they're yours to have."

"What?"

"You spent nearly four months barely being a decent person and expect me to stop everything for you?"

"No, I want to have an honest conversation."

Hollowly she laughed and stared out into the living room. "Oh, _now_ you want to do that? And what? You expect me to be waiting to hear it? Want me to pant on the floor like a dog waiting for crumbs?"

Screwing up her face, Pansy glared. "Look, I want to be here, but only if you're here, too."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so?"

"That's what you want and it has everything to do with you wanting to cover your ass so you and your baby can be free from judgement. That has absolutely nothing to do with my family."

"Did you not hear me Tuesday?"

"Hear what? That you get a baby and home with Harry's death? That we provide—what—the media version of a safe beard?" Hermione glares. "I will not have my sense of duty and my love be made into a convenient ploy. I refuse to help you raise Harry's child just to have you disappear or leave when whatever this is becomes inconvenient."

"Isn't that exactly how things work around here--how they worked with Harry?"

Anger flared up, hot and white-hot, "Where did Harry tell you to bring him? Whose step did he demand to die on?" She stepped to Pansy, toe-to-toe, ready for whatever.

"Here."

"You're right, he did."

Looking to the side, Pansy took another breath, "Hermione—I am sorry, I am. Can I get another chance?"

"A chance at what?" Hermione went to the pantry and pulled out the bag of crisps that Pansy could no longer eat, untucking the ends, and popped one into her mouth. "You're going to need to be specific."

"Can I please get another chance at being your friend and living here in Harry's house?"

"Maybe. How long do you intend to stay? Where do you want the child to go to school? Do you have plans to leave once things change or become too hard?"

"I don't know, I was thinking we could stay for at least a year—see how it worked with all of us crammed in here. I am not sure I can stay in a house with one shower, I am barely able to operate like this. And I was going to send them to private tutors. And maybe we will leave if things get too hard— I have no idea what is going to happen!"

Leaning back a little, Hermione regarded Pansy. "That might have been the most honest you have been with me in the last four months."

"Okay," Pansy returned.

"Okay? Is that the schedule we can expect then? Honesty once every four months and expensive birthday presents?"

"That's not what I said—" Pansy huffed.

"You're going to have to get a lot more clear, then," Hermione pushed. "What if you change your mind about dating? Am I going to have another interrupted date because you want to have a fit? Should I expect a jealous display?"

Flushing, Pansy stepped back and glared. "I don't know, I hadn't considered dating. You only brought up sex and I am pregnant—this isn't exactly a formula for success, Granger! Am I supposed to be a mind-reader and a clairvoyant? I am a Merlin-forsaken disaster and you want— what—an itinerary? I can't give that to you! I can't even—" she gestured at Hermione, "watch you eat my crisps without having conflicting feelings. I am a hormonal prison that simultaneously wants to shag my ex-boyfriend's not-wife and slap her smart mouth for daring to eat my crisps in my face. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy?"

"Yes, actually, that is exactly what I want to hear, and no, I'm not happy. Are you happy with how things are?"

Conflict and confusion flashed fast across Pansy's face. "No, I'm not," she quieted, "I'm terrified to do this, let alone by myself."

"Give yourself more credit, Parky," Hermione tried downshifting. "Everyone is terrified of having a baby."

Still confused and reticent, Pansy eyed Hermione and the two stood in silence, regarding one another. Pansy drew in a breath. "So what you're saying is that you want to know where my head is at. Is that accurate?"

"More or less, yes." She considered what she would need to justify things going forward with less friction. 

The two women stood silently regarding each other, careful in their breathing and looks.

"I don't expect you to have everything figured out," Hermione started once her heart rate had leveled to something much less fierce. "But Ron and I are polyamorous and we have children and Harry is dead and you are pregnant. So."

"Right."

Hermione crunched another crisp with satisfaction and licked her lips before continuing, "And the way we have operated is to be open and upfront. I am committed to Ron and our girls, and he is committed to us. There is no doubt about that and no amount of pretty women or scary things are going to change our dedication to each other."

Listening and clearly unsure if she should respond, Pansy nodded and poured another cup.

"Ron and I prioritize the girls, our jobs, our love life, and after all of those things, then we seek out whatever else it is that we fancy—whether it is a new hobby or a new person. We get screenings regularly on top of personal spell checks with any partners before sex."

"What about when you make out with someone? You hadn't asked me about my status when we—"

That was true.

"Well," she hedged, "I'll be honest and say that I'm not exactly the best at sharing medical histories before...making out, but I'm more stringent with strangers than with people I know."

Nodding slowly, Pansy licked her lips and looked at her mug for a moment. "I know that you're getting ready for a trip, but when you get back, maybe..." the woman took another deep breath and exhaled before looking up, "Maybe we could talk more? I don't know how—" And there was a gentle arc of the mug, "to do this. Harry and I talked about how he was with Ron and you, but—" and she stopped, an unreadable expression falling in place.

Pushing her hair over her shoulder, Hermione waited, intensely curious. He had talked about seeing Pansy, about having time with her, but he had never gotten into details beyond setting the schedule and calendar. At first, she figured Ron being so irked is what kept Harry quiet, wanting to avoid another argument. But then a few months lengthened to a half-year and turned to a year until he all but died in Pansy's arms.

"But what?"

"Harry and I shagged about, but..." the dark-haired woman's eyes fixed on the mug, "it wasn't kinky or...randy." Another deep breath, then "Harry was incredibly gentle with me, as if—" she swallowed, searching for the words, "As if I was something precious. And most of the time we spent together was more about connection than contact." Looking up, Pansy's eyes were soft, tentative.

Another layer to a man she had known for more than half of her life was now exposed. Thoughts began swirling in her head. Harry sought Pansy for...comfort? And he had confided his terminal condition with her?

"He didn't talk a lot about his boundaries or his...moods, as you called it."

"That was his word for it, not mine," Hermione deflected automatically.

"Right. Well, I am not sure I can be...much of anything to anyone, right now, but... I do want to stay. And if that means being honest, then, when you get back and are ready to talk, we'll talk."

Watching Pansy, Hermione wasn't sure what to think. Harry had never specified the type of relationship he had had with Pansy, and she had just assumed it was one of sexual convenience.

"Alright," Hermione inhaled, girding herself, "When we're ready to chat, then, I want to know a bit more about your future plans, prospective living arrangements and career changes. And you don't have to get along with Ron, but you will need to be able to speak as openly to him as you do me when it comes to intentions."

"Got it. Anything else? Shall I bring my CV?"

With a small huff, Hermione restrained the chuckle. "Well, it wouldn't hurt to have some decent references," she replied.

Without missing a beat, the retort, "Well, one of them is dead. Shall I call for a seance?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written an entirely different scene with Molly and Hermione that happened earlier in the story, but because of the way I wanted the story to flow, I had to adjust the dialogue--and unfortunately, this is the glitchy result.  
> I am currently working through the feel and tone of the thing and am about 70% satisfied with what I've got so far, given that there is a bit more to be teased out. I completely understand any confusion on the direction of the story because this is literally being drafted from a rough outline that is octopussing its way through my grey matter.

**Author's Note:**

> So... Thoughts?  
> There are still a lot of topics to cover: the Linea alba, the muggle library, pregnancy randy-ness, and nesting.  
> Pregnancy starts getting "weird" for most women by the 2nd trimester (according to my wife and sisters who have graciously provided me with their first hand experiences), so we'll be seeing much more interaction coming about.


End file.
